The Pendulum Swings Back
by Fish and Bird
Summary: Sequel to Harry Potter and the Fatal Fury. Eight years after the Final Battle, the peace which everyone thought would last forever is under threat. Whispers of a shadowy threat force Severus Snape to take a more active interest in the wizarding world.
1. A Premature Epilogue

**Disclaimer****: The author of this story has no connection with J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Bloomsbury Publishing or AOL Time Warner Inc. This is purely a work of fan fiction and as such, no permissions have been given by any of the aforementioned parties. As this story is published on the internet on a strictly not-for-profit site, no infringement is intended. Rights to the characters mentioned is neither claimed nor implied. I am naught but an unworthy cur riding on the coat tails of my elders and betters!**

**Chapter 1 – Pr****ologue**

**Great Britain,**** September 2006**

In the eight years since the end of the Second War, things had changed.

Few could argue that the changes wrought had not been for the better or that they had not been entirely necessary at the time, but that had been then and this was now.

In an attempt to stabilise the battered magical community for a period after the tumultuous events of the second struggle against Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, a state of martial law had been declared. It had been decided by the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, that only those who had fought in the Battle of the Brae would be able to hold high office. These witches and wizards had proven their integrity beyond doubt by putting their very lives on the line in a final, hopeless battle against a vastly superior force of Death Eater Legions.

The Auror Phalanxes had been erroneously named, as only half of the forces of the Order of the Phoenix that fateful day had consisted of Aurors. The remainder had been comprised of adult volunteers from all walks of life who had answered the call to arms issued by the Ministry of Magic. From the wizarding population of a little over 60,000 individuals in mainland Britain, only 300 had stepped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Aurors. It was Scrimgeour's disgust with what he saw as the general population's cowardice which was one of the main impulses for him to take his radical decision.

In effect, all surviving veterans were drafted, willing or not, to serve the 'public interest'. Great efforts were made to match each person's individual talents to the posts they were assigned, but at the end of the day the most important factor was trust. The Minister of Magic needed to know that he had below him people who were neither talentless political appointees nor servants of the Dark. As positions under high office were still open to the all candidates, the real impact on the average witch or wizard was slight and the plan enjoyed strong public approval.

With his power base secured, Rufus Scrimgeour went to work. There were pogroms conducted against any and all who had been connected to Voldemort in even the slightest way. Enlisting the aid of each and every foreign country which bordered Great Britain, Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland, he effectively quarantined the wizarding population for over six months. The justice was swift and harsh, with a great many people being thrown to the few surviving captive Dementors for the Kiss. The executions were held publicly, with the condemned being chained to a post in the middle of an open-air amphitheatre. Perhaps surprisingly, the public had remained deathly quiet throughout each of the numerous killings instead of baying for the blood of the doomed individual, a fact which made the proceedings all the more unnerving.

After the condemned's soul had been sucked out, they faced the final ignominy of having a poison forced down the throat of their still-living, though entirely empty body. Still chained to the broad wooden post, and dressed as they were in filthy rags, they would mewl and thrash as their bodies died. For the once-proud supporters of the Dark Lord to die in such a manner was seen by all as a fitting end.

When he had finished with the collaborators, Scrimgeour had gone after the corrupt with a vengeance. These fresh purges against the bent bureaucrats and crooked politicians had proved to be no less popular than the previous round conducted against those who had aided and abetted the forces of darkness for so long. This time, however, the convicted were not sentenced to death but to long terms of imprisonment in the newly refurbished Azkaban prison. With no Dementors to continuously torture the prisoners, a new regime was devised. The inmates were marooned on the island with no wands or any other magical artefacts and left to fend for themselves. On this desolate, wind-swept island in the middle of the North Sea, the inmates would have to catch fish, farm whatever crops they could and affect repairs to their few clothes in the Muggle way. The shock of being forcibly removed from magical society and forced to eke out such a miserable existence killed many of those so sentenced. Few tears were shed for them.

The sight of a deflated Cornelius Fudge being led away in chains to begin his fifteen-year term at Azkaban had marked an end to this stage of Scrimgeour's plan. Society was as clean of the sins and sinners of the past as it was ever going to be and life began to settle down once again. The final step was to write a constitution for the wizarding community, something which it had been lacking up until now. It was acknowledged to be a fairly good attempt at one at that and enjoyed the support of a broad cross-section of wizardkind. All in all, it was a time of consensus.

Not all the changes were so drastic or immediate, however. The new post of Prefect General was created for the greatest surviving hero of the Second War, Severus Snape. It was a lifetime post which gave him carte blanche to act in any manner he saw fit and he did not shy away from using the full extent of his powers on occasion. The remit of this new office was to,

"…_maintain the safety of the general public, police the actions of the Personnel and Offices of Government, and seek out any and all agent provocateurs who would seek to foment discord within the wizarding community and/or engage in activities deleterious to the general well-being of society."_

He did not need to trouble himself with the less desirable individuals in society as Moody was attending to that matter in that usual unsophisticated, yet effective, manner of his. Rather, Snape wielded his power behind the scenes in order to reshape wizardkind by eradicating Muggle influences and re-introducing lost wizarding ways. A new era of traditional, courtly manners was gradually introduced over time. Formal public events would take place with cries of _'…make a leg…'_ and _'…your best curtsy…'_ now once again being commonplace. Formal dress balls, courting rituals and manners were gradually gaining popularity amongst the wizarding population, be they pureblood or otherwise.

Muggle chic was firmly discouraged by the simple expedient of making life increasingly uncomfortable for the parents of those children who chose to practice it. However, few examples were needed when all Snape needed to do was make a few choice comments within the earshot of any reporter who valued their own skin. The next edition of whichever publication the lucky journalist belonged to would invariably carry an article quoting the Prefect General extensively and extolling the virtues of whatever his point of view happened to be. It was a process which took place over many years and the changes were willingly embraced by the general population. By returning to the genteel customs of a bygone age they were drawing a line under the previous disastrous era of wizardkind.

People wanted to forget; people needed to forget.

**A Premature Epilogue - ****Monday 30****th**** September 2007**

The two figures huddled together in the deep shadows of the doorway, despite the muggy warmth which made them sweat so. The hoods of their dark robes were covered in cobwebs and dust from the seldom used front door, and trailing creepers of ivy brushed against the taller figure's shoulders. Only a passer-by with exceptionally keen eyesight would have spotted the toecaps of their boots peeking out into the silvery moonlight.

Although one was intent on dissuading the other from his chosen course of action, they knew they were both here to bid farewell to one another as it would be a long time, if ever, before they would meet again. There was a long silence punctuated only by the occasional hoot of a passing owl before the taller figure finally gave in to his rising sense of frustration.

"You've already lost everything else and now this!" he hissed.

"I'll survive," said the other in a dead tone of voice.

"Surviving isn't enough!" protested the first.

"We used to think so," stated the second with a ghost of a smile on his face. He was staring out over his favourite vista, desperately trying to fix each and every detail of it in his mind.

"That was then! We've both…we're not…_they_ won't let you go!" finished his friend hotly.

"Why not?" asked the first with a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm not telling them," he stated matter-of-factly.

The second figure froze, shocked to his core by the implication of those seven words. "You can't!" he protested.

"I must!" was the fiercely whispered reply.

After long moments of silence, the first figure reached out a hand to draw his resisting friend into a fierce embrace.

**A****uthor's Note**

**Arthur C. Clarke, that G****randee of science fiction with whom I would not dare to lump myself in with, took a very practical view of the books in his Odyssey series.**

**He considered his sequels to 2001: A Space Odyssey not as linear ****to the original story, but rather as variations on the same theme. The subsequent books, 2010, 2061 & 3001 involved common characters and situations, but were not necessarily set in the same universe.**

**I would like ****to take a leaf out of that wise man's book and ask you to view this sequel to 'Harry Potter and the Fatal Fury' in much the same light. If you like what I have done with J.K. Rowling's characters and my own plot for them, feel free to 'staple' it on to what I have previously written. If, however, you think I have made a complete arse of things, you can consign it to the wastepaper basket of your mind and your computer!**

**Regardless of what conclusion you come to, I hope that I manage to surprise you!**

**Fish & Bird**


	2. Two's Company

**Chapter 2 – Two's Company…**

"_A contented heart is an even sea in the midst of all storms."  
_

_Anonymous_

**11.45 – Monday 28****th**** August 2006**

The unmistakeable call of wood pigeons drifted over the thatched roofs of the many cottages, town houses and barns which together formed the village of Hogsmeade. It had been the quintessential British summer so far with a wholly unpredictable mixture of rain, sun and clouds. The adults of this settlement were never particularly bothered by the weather, capable as they were of protecting themselves from the unpredictable elements with the simplest of charms. The children, bound as they were by the irksome restriction on underage magic, were not so lucky. Fortunately for them, there was always shelter to be had under the low, overhanging eaves of the buildings or failing that, the countless oak, hackberry and ash trees which studded the streets and surrounding fields with such regularity.

This day was one of the sunnier ones so far, promising an oven-like heat later in the afternoon if the weather failed to break. At this time in the late morning, however, the sky was a deep blue and was dotted here and there with fluffy white clouds. Already the day was warm and the inhabitants of Hogsmeade were set on taking full advantage of such a halcyon day, for when the all-too-brief summer ended here in Scotland there would be nothing to look forward to except a long, grey winter.

In an area of the village away from the noise and bustle of the shops and hostelries, there was a small thatched bungalow located in a quiet residential street. Its walls were of the purest white, painted fortnightly as they were by either of its two tenants. The garden was immaculate, with well-tended rose bushes, a manicured lawn and flower beds without the hint of a weed. Such a state of repair was hardly surprising for a wizarding residence where the vast majority of tiresome chores could be attended to with the minimum of fuss by magic. What was extraordinary was the fact that the two bachelors who lived there took the trouble to take such care of their home, given that they were seen as 'young tearaways' by the majority of their neighbours.

Not only were they insufferably young, grumbled the retired section of the community, but they were _Aurors_ to boot. This last was uttered with tone of finality which brooked no further discussion of the matter and was all the more curious given that a leading pillar of the community, one Roberto Choeke, was a Regional Commander of the Aurors who had recently been promoted from Field Director. He had lived in the community since not long after the Battle of the Brae, some eight years previously, in which he had served with distinction, being invested with the Order of Wizarding Merit _and_ the Order of Merlin, Second Class. This was an almost unheard of honour, accorded to only a handful of the other veterans of that engagement, most of whom had received their awards posthumously.

The elderly witches and wizards of Hogsmeade basked in the reflected glory of having such a senior establishment figure as Regional Commander Choeke living in their community, but the fact that such whippersnappers were also highly placed and important officials had put many a local nose out of joint. It had been an unpleasant shock when the two of them had been spotted ambling down the main street together in the gathering dusk, doubtless on their way to some Ministry function, with the three concentric blue circles of the Order of Wizarding Merit pinned to the front of their formal dress robes. Apparently, youth was one sin which could not and would not be tolerated, much to the ill-concealed amusement of the two men concerned. They had quickly become accustomed to the twitching of net curtains which marked their passage down the street as the merest whiff of scandal was the very lifeblood of their nosey neighbours. The fact that two _unmarried_ witches regularly stayed the night at their cottage served only to fan the flames of righteous outrage.

Not that the short, slim man with thinning brown hair who was currently snoring in the deck chair much cared. Rising early in the morning as he habitually did, he had made an early start on his pride and joy. The roses which grew in the garden were yet another source of envy in the neighbourhood. Anyone could tend to non-magical plants with their wands, of course, but it was a curious fact that they seemed to respond better to the 'Muggle touch' and this man delighted in spending hours working in the garden with nothing more than his hands. As the sound of the British National Quidditch League being dissected on the Wizarding Wireless Network drifted out of the small kitchen window he slept on, blissfully unaware of the world around him. His gardening gloves lay on his chest, slowly rising and falling in time with his breathing.

As with any Auror on the active service list, he was in the very best of health; the Ministry of Magic could ill-afford to place the security of the magical community in the hands of the infirm and the physically impaired, after all. One look at his face, however, and it would be easy to reach the conclusion that he was recovering from a recent illness. His face was just a shade too thin to be considered healthy and his skin was too pale for having been exposed to the summer sun for the few weeks he had been living in the cottage. His forehead was heavily lined and his eyes sported pronounced crow's-feet, both of which looked out of place on his otherwise youthful face. Mumbling incoherently, his hands bunched involuntarily around the plain walking stick which lay across his lap.

Behind him the low doorway leading into the kitchen revealed a scene of domestic tranquillity. Besides the radio turned to face the window, the low-ceilinged room was cluttered with the paraphernalia of everyday life. Two battered old leather armchairs were turned to face a fireplace blackened with centuries of ingrained soot. Although no fire was to be found there in the height of summer, the two residents would sit in front of the alcove every night without fail, enjoying one another's company and talking about their respective days. Judging by a number of other objects in the room, they would also often while away the evening on other pursuits. A large wizard chess set was set up and ready to play on a low table off to the left of the fireplace, whilst to its right a battered violin and cello hinted at a modicum of musical endeavour. An eclectic collection of books jammed haphazardly into the shelves of a lopsided bookcase rounded off the sitting-room.

Through the door leading to the kitchen, a battered pot of some stew or other could be seen simmering away merrily on top of the blackened old stove and at its side a freshly baked loaf of bread lay cooling on a wire rack. Their savoury aromas mingled together and slowly filled the cottage with the promise of a hearty lunch. The homely image was slightly spoiled by the sink full of dirty dishes but be they Muggles or wizards, bachelors would always be bachelors.

The three remaining rooms in the cottage contrasted with the homely clutter of the sitting-room and the slight disorder of the kitchen in that they were immaculately clean. Leading off an L-shaped passage which connected the kitchen to the front door were a bathroom and two bed chambers. On top of their daily showers, both men would enjoy a long soak in the bathtub whenever they were able. The never-ending physical training of an Auror coupled with the occasional bout of active duty would ensure a constantly renewed crop of bumps and bruises which were always best treated in a hot bath. Combine this with the fact that their female company would brook no slovenliness in matters of cleaning and the end result was an ever-sparkling array of white porcelain.

Though relatively small, the two bedrooms had enough room to house the large four-poster beds which dominated them. Indeed, after installing these monstrous pieces of furniture there remained precious little room for anything else. A single chair and a small wardrobe were the only other objects to be added. Aubrey and Rafe had taken no end of stick from Bob Choeke and Iain Knatchbull for the sheer size of the things, but had managed to shrug it all off with but a thought of those who would be sharing their beds.

"_Love conquers all,"_ had been Bob's sarcastic, yet uncannily accurate, observation.

Back at the garden, the slight squeak of the gate announced the arrival of the second occupant. Ordinarily he didn't make the effort to escape the office for lunch, but he was worried about his friend. Changes were afoot and if there was one thing Aubrey didn't like, it was change. He was tall and broad shouldered, but without managing to look particularly athletic as he seemed to stoop as he walked, which had the effect of rolling his whole body forward and making him seem overly aggressive. He looked as if he hailed from foreign stock due to his olive skin, dark brown hair and black eyes, but his facial features were nondescript and it was impossible to pick out any likely countries of origin. Besides, even if his parents were indeed from abroad, he certainly was not. When he opened his mouth to speak, he was indistinguishable from his friends and work mates.

He stopped at the side of the deck chair and looked down at his sleeping friend for some time, his eyes dwelling on the walking stick. He knew perfectly well he was blameless and that these things happened all too often in the life of an Auror, yet he could not help but feel a sense of guilt over his friend's predicament. It wasn't even the temporary limp which bothered Aubrey so much as the fact that it had served to set his friend's feet on their current course; one which was ill-advised in his oft-repeated opinion. Sighing, he crouched down next to his friend and gently placed a hand on his shoulder to shake him awake.

"Rafe, wake up, you lazy arse," he said quietly.

Taking a single deep breath, his friend opened eyes framed by crow's feet to reveal irises of the palest blue. After a moment of incomprehension, he frowned and pulled himself upright in the deck chair. Squinting up at the sky he could see that it was approaching midday and he cocked an eyebrow at his friend, as if to ask why he was here.

"Well," said Aubrey with an expansive shrug of his shoulders, "you cooked pease pudding for lunch."

"Like you could have smelt that all the way from London, Aubrey," scoffed Rafe with a wide yawn as he rubbed his face with one hand and his leg with the other. "You've come to have another go at me, haven't you?"

"Nope, I'm not going to argue my corner again; you know how I feel about all this."

"Good," grunted Rafe, though judging by the wry smile on his face he wasn't as annoyed as his tone of voice suggested. "It's nowhere near as bad as you make it out to be, you know. If there's a nicer place to live than Hogsmeade, I don't know where it is. We've got decent enough pubs, a few good restaurants and can use our brooms without worrying. It was you who didn't much care for it when we were living in a Muggle neighbourhood, having to watch ourselves all the time. Relax, man; we can let our hair down here!"

"Yeah, like you've got any hair left to let down!" quipped Aubrey, but his heart wasn't in it. "Maybe you're right. I just won't like it when you're teaching up at Hogwarts. Who'll watch your back when I'm not around?"

"Aubrey, the worst thing I'll be facing is old McGonagall and a herd of ankle-biters. What can possibly go wrong?"

"It's not the sprogs which worry me, you know that."

"It's a done deal, anyway. I'll only be there for nine months and then the almighty Provost Marshall will have to choose a new victim…it might even be you," he added slyly.

"Fat chance!" laughed Aubrey, apparently mollified by his friend's words. "I'll stow away on the first boat to Australia if he tries to stuff me in a classroom!"

"Excellent! I'll make sure to owl him with the idea, then."

Rafe placed a hand on top of his walking stick and held the other out to Aubrey, who pulled him upright. Looking up at his friend, he winked and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Look, why don't you set the table in the garden? Bob stopped by before and invited himself and Eleanor over for lunch," Rafe called back over his shoulder, as he limped off into the kitchen to see how badly he had burned the stew.

No one quite knew when Bob and Eleanor Armistead had become an item, but some time after the Second War people had become accustomed to seeing them together. At first it might have been a platonic relationship between friends and colleagues, but as the months had slipped by it was obvious that romance had blossomed. As they were both senior Aurors they tried to keep their relationship low-key, but in the company of friends they let their guards down and were openly affectionate with one another. They had married a couple of years ago and Eleanor was now heavily pregnant with their first child.

"Great! The rate she's packing it away at the moment there won't be anything left for the rest of us," Aubrey grumbled uncharitably.

He turned to take care of things in the beautifully tended garden of a picturesque cottage under the deep blue summer sky.


	3. Three Wise Men

**Chapter 3 – Three Wise Men**

"_Mistrust the man who finds everything good; the man who finds everything evil; and still more the man who is indifferent to everything."_

_  
__Johann Kaspar Lavater_

**2****1.25 – Friday 1****st**** September 2006**

Even at this relatively late hour on a Friday night, the Ministry of Magic was a veritable hive of activity. It was not the generous salaries, increased in an attempt to combat the temptations of bribery, which accounted for the apparent zeal of the workers, however, and nor was it the approach of the new academic year with all its attendant problems. No, as the workers exchanged furtive glances as they hurried to and fro, they all understood each other's reasons for being here. There was a meeting upstairs which _he_ was attending.

The number of times Prefect General Snape had set foot in the Ministry of Magic could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Consequently, when the main doors had crashed open and the only man to rival the Minister of Magic in power had stalked past the cowering Watchwizard, word of his arrival had spread like wildfire. A snowstorm of paper planes had been caused by workers sending hurried warnings to colleagues who were unaware of the situation. Those who were on the point of leaving for the evening had hurried back to their desks, whilst witches and wizards who were at a loose end quickly found themselves weighty tasks with which to occupy their hands.

None wanted to attract the attention of the Prefect General, for his calm, impersonal scrutiny was never anything but a prelude to personal ruin. Though in theory he reported to the Minister of Magic, he in fact held a lifetime position with almost unlimited power. He was able to go anywhere and do anything in the wizarding world, and in effect did not have to answer to anybody for his actions. His office was charged with defending wizardkind against the rise of any individual or group which would threaten the status quo. Ruthlessly he would weed out anyone whom he believed to represent a threat to the peace and stability of the magical community. Politician, journalist or Dark wizard; it was all the same to this man, and if his past actions were anything to go by, he took his job very seriously indeed.

Three hours had passed since his shock arrival, and yet he, the Minister and the Provost Marshal were still closeted together with the meeting showing no sign of coming to an end. There was not a hint of what was going on inside the small office as every such meeting was habitually guarded by silencing charms cast from both within and without. Only Scrimgeour's personal assistant was within earshot of the office and she was almost as jealous of his privacy as he was himself. She had so far killed three suspicious insects which had strayed into sight, determined as she was not to be the one to either let down her employer or vex the dreaded Severus Snape. It was therefore particularly ironic that upon entering the Minister's chambers, _he_ had done nothing more than sit in the corner, steepled fingers resting against his lips whilst staring off into the middle distance.

The Friday afternoon get-together between Scrimgeour and Moody was a long standing arrangement which was only missed on those extremely rare occasions when one of them was physically absent from the country. There was no love lost between the men, but they had common goals and were more than capable of putting aside their mutual dislike for one another and working together. The Minister saw Moody as an unsophisticated though rigorous tool; a driven individual who was utterly dedicated to rooting out Dark magic in all of its forms. As long as he was given free reign to this end his loyalty was above question, and Scrimgeour slept easier in his bed knowing that he had such a stolid individual in charge of the Aurors.

Mad-Eye was similarly unimpressed by Rufus Scrimgeour. There could be no doubting the resolve of the man who had not only served as an Auror for nigh on thirty years, but had also personally led the 3rd Auror Phalanx against the Death Eater Legions at the Battle of the Brae. Scrimgeour had been seriously wounded in the battle and, in common with others suffering from unknown Dark hexes, had never completely recovered. No, it was not the man's courage or indeed his loyalty which were in question. Rather, Moody didn't much care for what the man had done in the past and probably would do again in the future in the pursuit of power. Politicians could never be trusted not to go rotten in the long run.

Despite each of them knowing the other's thoughts perfectly well, there existed a healthy respect between them. They were both plain-spoken men of action who had little time for mealy-mouthed cowards and cringing apologists. What was making them uncomfortable today was their common inability to categorise Severus Snape into either of these two categories. There could be absolutely no doubt that the man had balls of steel as never had anyone gone undercover for so long and in such circumstances and lived to tell the tale; not anywhere out of legend at any rate. However, he could hardly be categorised as a straightforward sort of man either. His presence in the room was a direct result of his unrivalled capacity for subterfuge and betrayal.

Yet at the same time Snape seemed to go out of his way to speak his mind. Even when it had been unadvisable to do so in the past, he had locked horns with anyone and everyone with whom he disagreed. Only Lord Voldemort, it seemed, had been spared his barely-contained ire. To have such a tower of ordinarily uncompromising acerbity sat silently brooding in the corner of the Minister's office was an enigma which served only to further irritate the two other men.

"And finally we come to the duty roster for those individuals invested with the Order of Wizarding Merit which incidentally, Alastor, I see you have once again neglected to wear today," stated Scrimgeour sourly.

"You speak like an old maid, Rufus! If you want to order me to wear the damned thing, why don't you just go ahead and do it? I never could stand it when you feel the need to go around the houses to make your point!" snapped Moody who was slumped low in his green leather armchair.

"I shouldn't need to issue you with an order to wear the medal at all times, Alastor. You know as well as I that it serves two very important purposes in that it fosters respect among the general population at the same time as it serves to maintain the stability of our society." The very neutrality of the Minister's voice gave away just how angry he was to those who were familiar with his moods.

"I'll make a note in my bloody diary, then: _Friday – wear meaningless piece of tin on chest!_ Can we finish up here, Rufus? I'm sure we both have other things we'd rather be attending to!" he said in a feeble attempt to goad Severus into showing his hand.

"Humph!" groused Scrimgeour as he rattled his sheaf of parchments, torn between upbraiding Moody and wanting to see if he would be successful. He too was nettled by the unexplained presence of the Prefect General. "I take it you have already seen to the security detail for His Excellency Heneage Ramekie? His retirement from the post of Jamaican Magical Ambassador is the high point of the diplomatic calendar this year, Moody, and we don't need any repeats of past…_incidents_," he stated in oblique reference to the unfortunate events of the past month.

A group of young layabouts had managed to penetrate the security of a press conference held by the Ministry Spokesman and had charmed all of the banners to read _'Freedom!'_, _'An End to Repression!'_ and _'The Ministry Stinks!'_. Imaginative the protest had not been, but it had touched upon the opinion of a sizeable minority of Wizarding Britain. As wizardkind slowly grew to be more and more conservative in its search for a peaceful and stable society, elements opposed to this direction were making their presence felt in a number of ways: magical graffiti, unsolicited owl post and other, more direct, forms of protest.

"It's covered!" barked Moody by way of reply. He was angry at having his security measures questioned, but angrier still that they indeed deserved to be questioned. The fact that such an inept band had managed to embarrass his usually air-tight security measures had shaken him to the core and done nothing for his mood. It was unfortunate, therefore, that this was the moment which Snape chose to make his entry into the conversation.

"Yes, altogether an unfortunate incident, Minister, but given the fact that Moody's record was before now entirely without blemish, perhaps we can just chalk this incident down to…bad luck?" he drawled. The two other wizards sat staring at one another for long moments, nonplussed by the fact that not only had the Prefect General spoken, but he had seemingly come down on the side of Mad-Eye Moody. The silence stretched out for long moments before the Minister finally spoke.

"Quite…er, I think we can all put this regrettable incident behind us now and wind up this meeting. That is, of course, if there are no further matters of interest to be tabled?" he added pointedly and Snape's top lip quirked in something akin to a smile in response to this latest probe.

"Minister, never did I expect to witness the day when Moody was to outdo you in terms of subtlety and guile. If you wish to know why I am here, why not just put that very simple question to me? Indeed, even that insignificant effort on your part is not necessary as I am quite happy to divulge the reason for my attending this…meeting of minds, shall we call it?" he added with obvious sarcasm.

"Two months ago to the very day, Aurors acting under the aegis of the Provost Marshall killed a wizard by the name of Boris Halliwell. I should very much like to know the particulars of the incident and was not minded to wait for a request for said information to _crawl_ through official channels between my office and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he explained.

"Why?" grunted Moody. "It was a simple arrest warrant for trafficking and dealing in cursed blades. When faced with a four-man arrest team and a document of legal detention, the idiot pulled his wand, seriously wounded one of the Aurors and then did his level best to do away with the rest of them! After having received three warnings, he was engaged and killed by another member of the team. The required Pensieve memories of the event are available for you perusal anytime you want to waste your time with them, Severus!"

"And I fully intend to view them, Alastor, but if you will indulge me for the moment, who was it exactly who provided the Pensieve memory? I imagine the wounded Auror had his mind on other things, so it most probably wasn't him. His name escapes me at the moment…" he said, leaving the unspoken question hanging.

"Smith," growled Moody by way of reply as he shifted in his seat and fought to rein in his rising temper. The Minister watched this exchange through narrowed eyes, as he did not believe for one moment that it could be inconsequential, even if, for the time being at least, he could not see how the matter was of any importance. Of more interest was the fact that Snape's dark eyes remain fixed on Moody as he raised an eyebrow, seemingly in search of more information.

"Rafael Smith!" snapped the old Auror finally.

"Smith, you say? A somewhat common name, but one with which I shall familiarise myself in the very near future. Might I also enquire as to the name of the poor, unfortunate individual who was forced to kill the criminal?" asked Snape silkily. Scrimgeour's interest was piqued by the fact that whatever was going on here was being played out in front of him, and not hidden in a dark corner. Was Snape trying to show him something, or was he merely playing games designed to distract those whom he wished to manipulate?

"His name is Aubrey Booker!" came the reply, ground out through clenched teeth.

"Thank you, Alastor," purred Snape. For the first time that evening, his hands were lowered from his chin and came to rest, white-knuckled, on the arms of his chair. "My final question is this: did the Pensieve memories of this event come from either of the named men, or were they submitted by one of the remaining two Aurors of the party?"

"Maximillian Cooper provided them." Although Moody was calmer than before, his face was mottled with ill-suppressed anger.

"Forgive me, Alastor, but I was under the impression that the witch or wizard responsible for apprehending or subduing the criminal was the one charged with filing the Pensieve report. Why was that not the case on this occasion?"

The Minister pursed his lips and regarded the scene before him. Moody was about to lose his temper – that much was patently obvious – and from thereon in the tone of the confrontation was likely to devolve to a dangerous degree. Snape he could live without, but a jailed or renegade Moody would make his own life a great deal more difficult.

"_Prefect General_," he began, emphasising the title and hoping thereby to inject a measure of restraint upon Mad-Eye. "On the surface of things, this sounds like a relatively unimportant matter. Would you be willing to share with us the reason for your interest in this matter?"

"No!" stated Snape somewhat bluntly.

"_No! No?_" burst out an incredulous Mad-Eye. "Something's up and _His Nibs_ here isn't telling me what it is! How am I meant to do my job properly– that of _Provost Marshall_ – if you don't share what information you have? If you have concerns about my Aurors, methods or practices, just come out and state them instead of tip-toeing around!" he demanded angrily.

"Alastor!" cautioned Scrimgeour.

"He started it!"

"Had I known you were so desperate for my approbation, Moody, I would have made it a point to attend these little meetings more often," intoned Snape whilst adjusting the cuff of his right sleeve.

"More often, you say? You know damned well you've not set foot in this building more than half a dozen times in eight years! Now you arrive uninvited and then proceed to do nothing more useful than act as a dust cover for that chair and pester me with unimportant details! What gives?" He punctuated his question by banging his gnarled old staff on the floor.

"I am given to understand that this Rafael Smith is your choice to fill the Professorship of Moral Behaviour and Wizarding History at Hogwarts," Snape continued, as if he was completely unaware of Moody's protests. "I don't remember the man. He did attend Hogwarts, I presume?"

"Of course, though it was just before your tenure there, if memory serves."

"Perhaps an older, more experienced individual would be a better choice?" said Snape in a tone of voice which precluded all possibility of his words being mistaken for a genuine question.

"He was at the Battle of the Brae, Severus, and that damned well ought to be good enough for you!" snarled Moody.

"Nevertheless, I will meet with this Auror who would be teacher and evaluate his responsibility for the post," he said.

"I'll tell him to expect you."

"Oh, of that I have no doubt," replied Snape darkly.

Scrimgeour watched the two old adversaries from behind his desk, unsure of the nature of the battle was he was witnessing, but by equal parts certain that it had been significant. Something was afoot if Severus Snape was out of his lair.


	4. In Vino Veritas

**Chapter 4 – In Vino Veritas**

"_All really great lovers are articulate, and verbal seduction is the surest road to actual seduction."_

_Marya Mannes_

**2****3.25 – Sunday 3****rd**** September 2006**

There was one thing of which Mad-Eye Moody was all too aware which Rufus Scrimgeour was not: there is always a traitor standing behind you.

The individual concerned may be far away or they might be close enough to see that tempting space between your shoulder blades, but behind you he or she most assuredly was. Such people would rarely consider themselves as traitors, of course, preferring instead to adopt the guise of brave, self-sacrificing agents of the light…or dark…or neither. Suffice it to say that in this case Rufus had been proven wrong.

The most common type of traitor was the one who achieved their end unthinkingly and to be fair to the Minister, Amity Oldcorn was perhaps the very last candidate that either he or Moody would have suspected. She had served with distinction as an Auror for over twenty years and had fought at the Battle of the Brae. What peace and prosperity existed in society today existed in some small part thanks to her blood and sacrifice, as the three concentric blue circles of the Order of Wizarding Merit pinned to the front of her robes testified; robes which were currently lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of a sumptuously appointed bedchamber.

Unfortunately for all concerned, she thought she knew full well what her young, athletic and deliciously skilled lover was after. She was a plain-looking witch who had the toned physique of an Auror, but was under no illusions that she was at all attractive. When he had first approached her, she had followed standard operating procedure and gone along with the flattery, hoping to give the annoyingly attractive young wretch enough rope with which to hang himself. The fact that she had allowed him to take her to his bed had been her undoing.

This might seem shocking by the standards of Muggles, but by the yardstick of a veteran Auror it was small beer. As there was no risk of pregnancy or disease, entrapping criminals by way of the flesh was seen as a legitimate tactic in the wizard world. So she had gone willingly to his arms, hopeful of an entertaining evening at the very least and expecting to report him to the authorities the very next morning. When she had left his exquisitely-furnished pied-à-terre for the second time, she had simply brushed it off as his not having said anything incriminatory yet. And so it went on. She _knew_ that he must be after something; there simply was no other explanation. She was almost twice his age and had no wealth, no unique abilities and precious little in the way of political connections. Her boss may have been Rufus Scrimgeour, but she knew full well that he would do her no favours. To him she was a competent employee and nothing else.

This left her in something of a quandary. What did Blaise Zabini want of her? He contacted her just as much as she did him and he had never yet asked anything of her. To begin with their relationship had been almost entirely carnal, with next to nothing in the way of speaking. Gradually, this had changed with the two of them lingering in each other's arms after they were spent, whispering about nothing in particular until the dawn took them their separate ways. When finally he had broached the subject of her work at the Ministry, she had privately cried tears of relief when he seemed interested in nothing more than the small talk of the office: he was nothing more malicious than a common gossip!

So now, almost a year later, she lay utterly relaxed at his side, her skin glowing in the aftermath of their lovemaking. She still did not dare to entertain the notion that she meant anything to him, but she had given up on the suspicion that he was after her for the information she could provide him. Casual sex she could live with; treachery she could not.

"Mmm, don't stop," she murmured as he scratched her back with his short, manicured nails. At first her back would arch involuntarily and the breath hiss from between her clenched teeth, but as he continued the gentle strokes, it was not uncommon for her to fall asleep to the rhythmic rasping of him gently scratching her back. Tonight, however, she was content to just watch the hypnotic dance of the crackling flames in the fireplace.

The dim light revealed a small bedchamber, but one which was richly appointed nonetheless. There was nothing ostentatious, but her telling eye could quite easily spot the quality of the heavy fabrics which dressed the bed, the furniture and which hung in front of the windows; the rare hardwoods which had been utilised to manufacture the solid furniture and trim the room; the tasteful quantities of gold and silver which served to trim most of which she could see.

"And just who is this new Professor, my love?" murmured Blaise as he nipped at the witch's shapely neck with even, white teeth.

"Smith," gasped Amity as she writhed under he lover's expert touch, "his name is Rafael Smith!" She blurted the answer out without thinking, jerked as she had been from her reverie by his unexpected question. Still, there was no harm done; that matter must be among one of the most innocuous amongst the countless items to be dealt with by the Ministry. She breathed easy relaxed once more under his playful, rhythmic scratching.

"Indeed?" said Blaise as, much to Amity's delight, he brought his other hand into the equation.

**06.55 – Monday 4****th**** September 2006**

Rafe could get by perfectly well without the walking stick, or at least that is what he told himself. He had left for his formal audience with Headmistress McGonagall and Deputy Headmaster Massingbird several hours early, determined as he was to walk the short distance to Hogwarts unaided and still have time to freshen up following his exertions. After he had lingered over his traditional breakfast of a cup of strong tea and a sausage butty with Aubrey, he had set out in the fragrant air of the pre-dawn in mixed spirits. As he slowly wandered the quaint streets of this, the only all-magical settlement on mainland Britain, he delighted in the silence and the opportunity it afforded him to think.

"_Neither of us has been so close to the castle since…you know…the Brae," Aubrey had said hesitantly not long after they had sat down together._

"_Hmm," had been his own __noncommittal reply as he kept his eyes fixed on his rapidly disappearing sarnie._

_They were both sitting at the table in the cramped kitchen of the cottage with only a few scattered candles to throw light on the proceedings. Through a mixture of good luck and string-pulling they had managed to live together for the majority of their bachelor lives. Work would occasionally __pull them apart, sometimes for extended periods of time, but they always ended up gravitating back towards one another. The majority of Aurors were the same in that they formed close bonds with those whom they worked with most often and they were generally loath to break such ties._

"_Are you sure you don't want me to__ come with you? I can owl Bob and have him cover for me, it's no…"_

_He had trailed off again as Rafe __abruptly dropped his unfinished breakfast onto his plate and pushed it into the middle of the table. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he had picked up his battered tin mug of tea and stared into its depths as had had swirled it around._

"_No__," had been the terse reply. He had softened his abrupt treatment of his friend with a small grin followed by, "Merlin; you stewed the bloody tea gain, Aubrey!"_

_The tall wizard let out a tense breath, obviously relieved that he hadn't gone too far and offended his friend. __Their eyes met and they both smiled, a companionable silence falling between them. Many a time had they watched the hours fly by in such a peaceful state and they didn't feel the need to fill the air with idle chit-chat. However, by the way he was shifting about in his chair it was obvious that Aubrey hadn't said all that he had wanted to say._

"_Spit it out, man!" Rafe had __said when he finished his tea._

"_We've always been honest with each other and…"_

"_I said spit it out, not beat about the bush!"_

"_What if something happens? That school is a bloody accident waitin__g to happen! You know what it was like when we were there – they might as well have installed revolving doors in the Hospital Wing! It's a place where kids learn how to use magic and anything could happen! What if…I can't…"_

"_Look at me!" hissed Rafe. "That will not happen; I won't let it happen! It's pure bad luck which has brought us back here, but we're on top of things! This is no different from any other mission__; just a bit longer. We'll be in and out like last time, Aubrey; in and out!"_

"_Like last time?" his friend asked with a sigh whilst looking significantly at Rafe's leg._

He was in no great hurry as he meandered up the well-trodden path towards Hogwarts, and he stopped twice to chat with the pairs of Aurors who regularly patrolled the area of the castle and Hogsmeade, even so long after the end of the Second War. Although he was the bookish type, more given to a night in the library than in the pub, he was still popular amongst his peers as he made the effort to get to know everybody. Indeed, Aubrey had been heard to observe sourly that even though Rafe had been a Ravenclaw, he was more of a Hufflepuff than many who had actually been placed in that ancient House by the Sorting Hat.

By the time he finally arrived there was a rich old ache in his right thigh, and so he sat for half an hour with his back to a low brick wall. The rapidly growing light revealed a castle which he had not seen in many years and he marvelled at the fact that it had changed not one whit. He smiled at thought as the castle probably had not changed overly in nigh on ten centuries, so quite why he would think that it should do so in the few short years since his term here was beyond him.

"Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory," he quoted to himself with a laugh.

Picking himself up, he dusted off his robes and started a circuitous route around the castle's grounds. He would pay for asking too much of his leg later on, but he was determined to revisit the haunts of his youth. Those bittersweet memories might help displace the less welcome recollections of the last time he had been here; the day of the Battle of the Brae.

On the very stroke of midday he presented himself at the stone gargoyle leading to the study of the Headmistress. Anyone watching him might have noticed the slightest hesitation before he brought his wand into contact with the carven face of the beast. As the stairway began to revolve upon recognising his magical signature, however, his demeanour was calm and confident. He closed his eyes as he was carried upwards, a welcome break for his throbbing leg. He knew it was useless to deny his feeling of trepidation of the coming interview, yet he could not quite put his finger on why he felt so. It was not as if he was actually applying for the post as the Ministry had foisted him upon the school and there was therefore no need for him to impress. He could be as blasé or as arrogant as he wished and it would make no difference whatsoever.

And that was the crux of the problem, he acknowledged to himself.

Although he knew he would only be here for this academic year and that he certainly did not covet the position, he suspected that the Hogwarts Faculty would not take his appointment lying down. After the chaos of the Second War in which he had seen so many of his friends and acquaintances killed, Rafe had vowed that he would thereafter live the quiet life. Now he was being brought into a situation full of potential conflict against his will, and he knew he had to defuse it before it got out of hand. In short, there was a lot riding on this meeting. That Professor McGonagall should one day prove to be an adversary had never crossed his mind, and he found that it was a most unwelcome thought.

He took the few short steps from the top of the stairs to the ancient wooden door leading to the Headmistress's study. Like the vast majority of the students who passed through the venerated halls of this school, he had never been here. He had of course heard the rumours, both believable and incredible, which circulated about these most special of chambers. The school records were perfectly clear on the subject, however; Rafael Smith had never served a single detention, let alone been summoned to the then Headmaster's chambers. _"Library rat!"_ was the insult often thrown at him by Aubrey, and as he rapped smartly three times upon the dark grain of the door, he fervently wished he was indeed in the library instead of where he was now.

"Come in!" came the order in a high-pitched Scottish accent.

Pushing the door open with some difficulty, Rafe limped towards the desk. His leg had stiffened considerably in the brief time it had spent inactive on the revolving stairs and he leant heavily on his walking stick for support. Decorum demanded that Professors McGonagall and Massingbird rise from their chairs at the very least when receiving a job applicant, yet no sooner had he entered than they fair leapt to their feet. As he placed a hand on the back of what he assumed would be his chair, the unexpected happened. Professor McGonagall rounded the desk and placed a hand under his elbow, her thin, lined face etched with concern.

"Will you not sit down, Mr. Smith?" she enquired politely.

The knot of tension in his stomach rapidly dissolved as he remembered what a good egg Minerva McGonagall really was at heart. His own face dissolved into a warm smile as he accepted her help into the chair as his leg was throbbing mercilessly and he should never have walked so much this morning, he finally admitted to himself. It may not have been the unmitigated disaster it might otherwise have been, as this spontaneous show of concern had served to break the ice between them, and as Rafe used both hands to gingerly adjust his leg, Professor McGonagall hovered anxiously at his side.

"_Och, will you look at the state of him?"_ she thought to herself. _"All skin and bone, just like half of the Aurors these days! Great, burly things they were when I was his age and now look at them! No wonder they want to farm him out for a year; he'd blow away in a stiff breeze! I'll have words with Moody about this disgrace!"_

Hieronymus Massingbird frowned slightly as he looked at the scene before him. Despite her fierce image, Minerva had always been a soft touch and this young invalid was bound to pluck at her heartstrings. He had checked into the young man's background and had no doubt that his story was a genuine one: an Auror who had been seriously, though not critically, wounded in the line of duty. Given the correct regimen of potions and physiotherapy there was no reason why he should not be out of their hair come the end of the academic year. Unfortunately, that was not really the issue as if and when this Auror disappeared, another would be appointed to take his place.

It was the expression on Smith's face which had given him pause for thought. The unguarded smile he had flashed at Minerva was not what you would expect from an old student at all. He was around forty years of age, so had undoubtedly taken class under her when she had been the Transfiguration Professor. That did not account for the look of near unbridled joy which briefly crossed his face when he had first seen her, however. He had tamped down on it quickly enough, but there was more to this situation than met the eye and he resolved to get to the bottom of it just as soon as he was able. It was at this point that Rafe became aware of Professor Massingbird's steady scrutiny and he made as if to rise to his feet.

"Don't be silly, boy! If Madam Pomfrey ever found out that you'd stood up in that state just to bow to me she'd have my guts for garters!" he forced himself to boom jovially.

"Thanks, Professor Massingbird. It does ache just a little this morning; it was probably all the walking I did."

"But you didn't walk all the way here from Hogsmeade, surely!" protested Professor McGonagall.

"I did actually," replied Rafe with a sheepish grin. "I wanted to take a look around for old times and all that. I visited the graves down by the Brae, too," he added with a more serious tone of voice. The three of them assiduously avoided looking at each other in that peculiar British manner of not explicitly referring to personal grief.

"Yes, well, perhaps we'd better proceed with the interview?" prompted Professor McGonagall after a moment.

"Ah, but that's the problem, isn't it?" countered Rafe quickly. "This isn't an interview in any meaningful sense of the word. The Ministry of Magic has chosen to directly interfere with Hogwarts for the first time in nearly a decade by removing one subject from the curriculum and imposing a new one, and just to add insult to injury they've also taken away your ability to choose your own candidates and have imposed me upon you. This whole situation surely must put you in mind of the Delores Umbridge debacle," he added with candour.

He knew he had made progress when McGonagall and Massingbird exchanged a pointed look. It was obvious that this had been exactly what they were thinking, and determined not to lose the momentum he had created, he ploughed on.

"I have to be honest with you and state that I don't feel myself to be the best candidate for the job. If I hadn't been wounded, then somebody else from the sick list would be sitting here right now. Given the nature of the new subject it's obvious that a veteran of the Battle of the Brae, be they Auror or not, would be the best candidate for the job. Unfortunately, Hogwarts seems to be stuck with me and I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that I would do nothing to harm this school, either by my actions or lack thereof." He settled back into his chair with his heart thumping. He had said his piece and now had to wait to see how it all panned out.

"A very sincere little speech," observed Professor Massingbird tartly. "Did you prepare it?"

"Yes," answered Rafe after the briefest of hesitations, a flush climbing his cheeks.

"Hero!" admonished Professor McGonagall. "Where are your manners? Mr. Smith has been perfectly candid with us and for that we should thank him. Merlin knows we don't want to return to the bad old days of Ministry gerrymandering and obfuscation!"

"You're quite right, Minerva," he replied, nodding stiffly to Rafe. "I do apologise, Mr. Smith; that was uncalled for."

"Not at all, Professor Massingbird," said Rafe, who was gently bumping his walking stick on the floor.

There was a long silence as the two parties sat in silent contemplation of one another. Professor McGonagall pursed her thin lips and leant back in her chair, causing it to creak alarmingly whilst Rafe drummed his fingers on his knee and absent-mindedly brushed pieces of grass off his robes. Flicking his watery blue eyes between the two of them, Professor Massingbird rested his chin on his interlinked fingers. Each party knew the other's point of view perfectly well and might even be said to respect it. At the end of the day, however, nobody in the room had any real say in what was essentially a _fait accompli_ on the part of Rufus Scrimgeour.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Smith," said the elderly witch with a resigned air.

"Thank you, Headmistress," Rafe replied with what seemed like a small sigh of relief. "I'll do my very best for the school, ma'am; you may be assured of that."

"Oh, I have no doubt that you will, Rafael," she answered with a strained smile. "And please, when in private we faculty members normally use given names, so in the future it will be Minerva and Hero, if you please."

"As you wish, Minerva, but I do prefer Rafe."

"In which case, Hogwarts welcomes its new Professor of Moral Behaviour and Wizarding History, Rafe Smith."


	5. Tempus Fugit

**Chapter****5 – Tempus Fugit**

"_Time is given us that we may take care for eternity; and eternity will not be too long to regret the loss of our time if we have misspent it."_

_Francois de Salignac Fenelon_

**12.10 – Friday 1st September 2006**

It is a little known fact that the vast majority of casualties in a war are those who are wounded in their limbs. This is not altogether surprising as these are the parts that tend to stick out from behind whatever the witch or wizard is using as cover. In the desperate struggle to hide the head and torso from incoming hexes, arms and legs were quite often neglected and who could complain? They could always be grown back, after all.

This piece of information, which would in ideal circumstances be nothing more than an obscure piece of trivia, was readily apparent after the Battle of the Brae. The quite staggeringly bloody clash which had seen the end of both Voldemort and his Death Eaters, had left over two hundred witches and wizards who had fought on the side of the Order without pieces of their respective limbs. In a society in which such disfigurements were almost unknown, it had been strange to say the least to see these people conduct their day to day lives as they awaited their respective appointments for assessment at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. In the vast majority of cases the treatment they received was both rapid and straight forward. Unfortunately for some, Dark magic could, and quite often did, cause complications. The current Provost Marshall of the Aurors, Alastor Moody, was living proof of that. He had been hobbling around for years on a wooden leg, legacy of an unknown hex in the first war against Voldemort.

The policy of St. Mungo's was to deal with the easy cases as quickly as possible and then concentrate on the trickier ones. Often they found a cure for the latter after much perseverance, but sometimes even the best efforts of the Healers were not up to the task. Hermione Granger had lost her left arm to a Fachan, a magical beast which had long thought to have been extinct. In her first and final foray in the Second War, she had been part of a team sent out with Harry in order to locate one of the Horcruxes. In the fume-filled crater of an active volcano, the Fachan had snapped off her arm in its powerful jaws just as she had blown its head apart with _Bombarda_.

By the time the Ministry had got around to investigating the volcano and its environs long after the end of the war, the beast's corpse had rotted away to its bones. The sulphuric acid in the atmosphere had quickly dissolved the flesh and therein lay the problem; without the soft tissue of the corpse to examine, the Healers were having a hard time of it determining the cause of Hermione's problem. It might well have been a venom coating the Fachan's dagger-like teeth much like the anti-coagulant which leeches used to ensure a steady flow of blood, they reasoned. Alternatively, it may have been caused by an unknown biological property or non-mundane attack of the creature, such as virus-laden saliva or magical fungus. Without a body to examine, they simply didn't know what they were dealing with and were consequently forced to conduct blind tests in their search for a way to regenerate the stubbornly missing arm.

Hermione had been successfully trying to dodge her limb regeneration appointment for years. At first she had quite reasonably pointed out that nobody had the slightest idea of what the problem was and therefore research was the order of the day. Next, she had gone on to argue that she had received counselling after her traumatic experience, something which the casualties of the Battle of the Brae had never enjoyed. This had left her much better adjusted to her loss and therefore priority should be given to those who had not been afforded such aid, she pointed out. Finally, she had gone on to cite the examples of those who had gone on to live fulfilling lives even with lost limbs and had stated that with her workload at the Ministry, she simply didn't have the time for successive rounds of unsuccessful treatment.

This attitude had both shocked and repelled many an individual in wizarding society. Being so generous as to allow for the fact that the girl had come from a Muggle background, not even their famous eccentricities could account for her seemingly uncaring attitude about her own horrific injury. She had been bundled off to see Mind Healers in case she was suffering from the after affects of mental trauma, but their reports confidently stated that she was simply well-adjusted to her loss and wanted nothing more that to get on with her life. Furthermore, they stated, due to the fact that she had suffered the loss of both Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter, her re-entry into general society should be effected as soon as was possible.

The oldest and dearest surviving friend of The-Boy-Who-Lived could be denied nothing in the eyes of the public, and despite her shocking deformity, she was treated no differently than any other witch or wizard as she went about her life. It was only the occasional startled yelp and pointing finger from younger children which would serve to remind her just what a strange sight she must be. She just smiled and shrugged it off when it happened, and after a while wizarding London became accustomed to the one-armed witch.

Therefore, nobody quite seemed to know the reason why, after a good few years, she had finally acquiesced and subjected herself to the inconvenient, time-consuming and often painful tests and treatments which awaited her at St. Mungo's. Whether it was the constant badgering of her friends, the admonitions of her former teachers at Hogwarts, or the slow blossoming of her relationship with Aubrey Booker, a Ministry of Magic Auror, she had finally taken herself off to St. Mungo's for a consultation.

"_But not without the maximum of ill grace,"_ had noted Bob Choeke regarding her contrary behaviour with not inconsiderable relish.

So here Hermione found herself for the umpteenth time, awaiting Senior Healer Woolworth and her usual sincere apologies for having made absolutely no progress whatsoever on the case. She always made sure to carry a good book with her on the days she went to St. Mungo's, and even went so far as to carry a bag of work-related scrolls with her on occasion. Finishing the first chapter of _Sunrise with Sea Monsters_, she closed her book, glanced up at the ornate clock on the wall of the waiting room and heaved a heavy sigh.

* * *

"Hermione?_Hermione_!" huffed Ginny, irritated by the fact that her friend was so distracted this evening. Once a fortnight they did their best to go out to a nice restaurant together for a more relaxed and unhurried evening of gossip, and she was cross that tonight of all nights her friend would prove to be so inattentive.

"Hmmm? Sorry, Ginny, I was miles away. What was it you were saying?"

They were seated at a small corner table, away from what little bustle there was at this early hour. From behind the tasteful double wooden doors, the faint rattling of pots and pans could be heard coming from the kitchen as the staff began to gear up for a long and busy evening, and the bar staff were also busy slicing lemons and setting out rows of spotless glasses. The two women preferred to dine as early as possible so as not to have to suffer the slow service and hastily prepared food of the later sittings, so such sights were common.

It was a Muggle restaurant, of course, a sight which would have been distracting to the majority of the wizarding community now that interaction with all non-magicals was thoroughly discouraged. As Ministry workers, however, Ginny and Hermione could not but help have at least some contact with them in the course of their day-to-day lives. Never anywhere nearly as bad as the late Arthur Weasley, Ginny was still able to draw some amusement out of watching dull, repetitive chores being done in the Muggle fashion, but this should hardly have proved to be such a distraction for her dining companion.

"How were things at St. Mungo's today?" she asked tentatively.

Hermione never seemed to give a second thought about her missing left arm, even allowing intimate friends to cut up her food if and when necessary, so Ginny was unsure of what the problem might be. After the batteries of tests and treatments it was not unusual that Hermione could be quite tired, however, which was why her friend always tried to pep her up with a meal afterwards, their respective timetables permitting.

"Oh, they were fine; the same old same old. It's just that they seem to be such a waste of time, is all. If I didn't have to attend them, I'd be able to finish work on time and spend the night in Hogwarts instead of in London," she replied with a wan smile.

"But you vomit every time you take the Floo after all those potions!" protested Ginny. "Besides, it gives us the chance to ditch our better halves and go wild," she whispered with a Weasleyesque raising of her eyebrows as she leant in towards her friend.

"Ginny!" protested a wide-eyed Hermione.

The transformation from intense concentration to light laughter was marked on Hermione's face. She had never been one for raucous humour, displaying instead only occasional flashes of a dry wit which left many with the erroneous impression that she was now even more serious and bookish than she had been as a child. One of the many things which bound these two together, however, was the fact that a Weasley had never been able to resist a good challenge, and Ginny delighted in trying to raise a laugh out of her friend just as much as Hermione benefited from the levity. These nights were important to them both.

They had been sombre and withdrawn for a long time after the deaths of Harry and Ron, but then the vast majority of witches and wizards had lost at least one friend or family member in that cataclysmic confrontation. Many had lost a great deal more than that. A weary resignation had settled over the wizarding population which had gradually been transformed into a steely resolve to never again permit such tragedies to occur. It was into this gap that both Rufus Scrimgeour and Severus Snape had stepped, both intent on changing society for the better…or at least their version of such a concept.

Unnoticed against a background of dramatic and often traumatic changes, the two witches had picked up the pieces of their lives just as so many others were forced to do. Hermione in particular had done all that she could to achieve and retain anonymity as soon as had been humanly possible. Leaving Hogwarts with unrivalled N.E.W.T. grades, she had gone on to work in the Wizengamot Administration Office at the Ministry of Magic. Many of her acquaintances had been surprised with what they saw as her unfathomable choice of this esoteric department. Things eventually became clear as time went by and she had gained experience and subsequent professional qualifications, however, and eventually came to specialise in prosecutions. She brought with her a fierce determination to help in the lawful regulation of society, whilst at the same time as curbing the excesses of the entrenched wizard aristocracy whom she saw as little more than petty dictators.

She had been taken aback to encounter none of the fierce resistance she had been expecting for herself and the wave of new blood which accompanied her into the Wizengamot. Perhaps unsurprisingly, as this was at the height of the pogroms against the endemic corruption in society, when obstacles were erected in her path the entrenched elite were horrified to have either the Minister himself or the Prefect General swoop to dismantle them. Not a few interfering individuals had found themselves dismissed, demoted or even facing the Wizengamot itself. Things were slowly changing.

Ginny, on the other hand, had taken a less surprising, though no less satisfying, route through life. Graduating with good results herself, she had elected to apply for, and be accepted as, a Junior Regulator in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Her cheerful temperament and innate social skills ensured that she was a natural when it came to organisation, and her genuine passion for sports beyond that of Quidditch meant that she soon came to be a valued member of the team.

She was now thoroughly enjoying life as a Field Inspector, which entailed travelling the length and breadth of the country in the appraisal and maintenance of both new and existing sports facilities. It was her fervent but unrealistic wish that within her working lifetime the Quidditch World Cup Final should again be held somewhere in Great Britain, and given the slightest excuse she would launch into a detailed and lengthy discourse as to why this would undoubtedly come to pass, much to the chagrin of those who had heard her impassioned speeches on the subject before.

The two friends looked normal enough as they chatted and laughed through their meal, but given their circumstances it was perhaps surprising that they had maintained their friendship as they ventured out into the adult world. They could only ever serve to remind one another of what they had lost, and many friendships had slowly dissolved under such pressures in the years after the Second War. However, not only had they managed to hold on to that friendship, but it had deepened and matured with the addition of new elements.

It was through Hermione's work that the two of them had come into contact with their respective partners. First Hermione had been seen in the company of a dark, moody and somewhat burly man at least fifteen years her elder who was, much to the surprise of many who met him, an Auror. They met innocently enough through a Ministry reading group, where the sight of the strapping Auror wearing small reading spectacles whilst perched atop a too-small chair had raised not a few eyebrows and smiles. Despite the difference in their ages, they began to date occasionally before their relationship deepened with time and had recently been cemented with an engagement ring.

Aurors being Aurors, they did develop close bonds with their colleagues, upon whom their lives often depended. For socialising with workmates, Aurors as a group were only rivalled by the notoriously cliquey Healers from St. Mungo's, so it was hardly a shock when Ginny ended up dating the equally old partner of Hermione's fiancé. What was a surprise to those gossips, who delighted in such minor scandals as older men dating pretty young women, was that this relationship had stayed the course. It was true that it had not yet yielded an engagement, but it was sagely predicted that this was but a mere detail: Ginevra Weasley and Rafe Smith were a sure bet for a future wedding, they confidently predicted.

"Come on, Judge Granger!" teased Ginny. "Let's get back to the oh-so-luxurious Ministry Residence. We'll get an early night, start early tomorrow morning and then skive off in the afternoon! We'll get back to Hogsmeade before the boys, change at the flat and surprise them with some of your…er, _delicious_ cooking. Bags I get first bath!"

"I knew you shouldn't have had that second glass of wine," Hermione said resignedly. "You're always so _impertinent_ after you drink Muggle alcohol! You know perfectly well I'm an Assistant Prosecutor and not a judge, a position which I've pointed out time and time again is a Muggle title and not a Wizengamot one.

"An early night is just what you need if you ask me, but if you think you can impugn my non-existent cooking skills _and_ have the first bath, then you're sorely mistaken. I'll go into Hogsmeade and do the shopping when you're in the bath and then you can use their kitchen to whip up something with which to astound us all!" she announced in a tone of voice which certainly sounded indignant, but didn't fool Ginny for one moment as this was an old game which they often played.

Arm in arm, the two old friends left the restaurant just as the place was hotting up for the evening.

* * *


	6. The Thin Black Line

**Chapter 6 – The Thin Black Line**

"_Those that can, do. Those that can't, teach."  
_

_George Bernard Shaw_

**11.45 – Monday ****4****th**** September 2006**

Professor Rafael Smith of the newly created curriculum subject of Moral Behaviour and Wizarding History stood painfully erect behind the High Table in the Great Hall. Fully conscious of the long and honourable traditions of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he endeavoured to look grave and magisterial as he imagined was befitting of a faculty member, yet was only rewarded for his efforts with a rebuke from the Deputy Headmaster.

"For Merlin's sake, Rafe; you look as if you've been poisoned! It's the students who should be afraid of you, not vice versa! If they sense the slightest nervousness on your part they'll tear you apart, so paste a smile on your face and loosen up!" he hissed from between his teeth.

"Sorry, Deputy Headmaster; it won't happen again. To tell the truth, I don't quite know why it is that I'm so nervous. When I was a student it was my job to be terrified of the teachers and I still remember the way they looked at us." he said with a grin. "They…well…suffice it to say that we believed they'd hex us as soon as look at us!"

As the younger man had been speaking, Professor Massingbird watched with interest as he had shifted his weight onto his good leg and then started to gently bump his walking stick up and down on the floor. He then began to run it across his face from the bottom of one ear, across the line of his mouth, to end up at his other ear; something which he did quite often. _It was always interesting to meet new people_, thought Hero to himself, _as they were a fresh combination of the different idiosyncrasies which you no longer seemed to notice amongst your old acquaintances_. As he looked out across the sea of faces below him at the four House tables, he wondered to himself just how much time he had remaining to him to get to know them.

"Is there a problem, Hero?" asked Rafe in response to the far away look in man's eyes.

"No, my boy, there's no problem; quite the opposite, in fact. I was in semi-retirement when Minerva tapped me to help out nine years ago. Now I'm working again I couldn't imagine having it any other way. I so look forward to the beginning of each new academic year and the fresh faces they bring."

"Well, I don't mind admitting that it scares me!" Rafe said fervently.

"It shouldn't, you know. Take a good look at them all. The First Years aren't here yet, but the rest of them are all staring up at us just as keenly as they always do when there's a new member of staff. They want to size you up and see how you fit into the hierarchy; what sort of teacher you'll be and what they'll be able to get away with." He looked at the young man who was rolling his aching shoulders, a legacy of leaning on the walking stick all day.

"And do you know what they see?"

"I'd empty my Gringotts vault to have the answer to that question," laughed Rafe.

"No need for that, my boy, but I will let you buy me some of Madam Rosmerta's finest mead the next time we're in Hogsmeade."

"It would be my pleasure," said Rafe with a genuine smile.

"They see Professor Rafael Smith," Massingbird stated with considerable conviction.

Again he looked at the younger man who only raised his eyebrows to indicate that he did not quite take the point. He had given up bouncing his walking stick as he was instead leaning on it and glancing at his chair, obviously anxious to be off his feet.

"They see a serving Ministry of Magic Auror, temporarily de-activated due to having been wounded in the line of duty, who is invested with the Order of Wizarding Merit!" laughed the Deputy Headmaster. "Merlin's beard, Rafe; these children have grown up hearing stories about the Battle of the Brae and thinking of the participants as fire-eating giants!"

"But that's rubbish, Hero, as well you know!" He lowered his voice at a warning look from the old wizard and nodded significantly at the medal which was pinned to the older man's robes. "You were there too and know perfectly well that practically every man and woman was quaking in their boots. Fighting for your life is one thing; sacrificing yourself so a frightened schoolboy can take a crack at an unbelievably powerful Dark wizard is entirely another. We were there as wand fodder, with no other purpose than to give _Potter_ time to complete his mission. I've never been as petrified in my life as I was that day and if they had seen me trembling then, they wouldn't hold me in such awe today," he concluded with a dark flush on his face.

Hero pursed his lips at the amount of venom with which Rafe had managed to imbue the name of 'Potter'. There were many different points of view regarding The-Boy-Who-Lived and his role in the struggle against Voldemort, and feeling still ran high in all of the camps. Deciding not to pursue the matter at this time, the Deputy Headmaster took a breath and continued.

"That's as may be, Rafe, but they definitely do hold you in such awe," he eventually said as he nodded down towards the four House tables. "They see a careworn, balding, grizzled forty-something veteran of…"

"Balding?" protested Rafe, his hand shooting up to his head. "I'm not…"

"Will you two be quiet!" ordered Professor McGonagall with her eyebrows almost meeting at her nose. "_Deputy Headmaster_, the First Years will be arriving momentarily. Might I suggest you avail yourself of this opportunity to take your leave?"

"Immediately, Headmistress," answered a contrite Hero, who still found the time to throw a wink and a mischievous grin at the younger man.

"And you, _Professor_ Smith; a little less noise from you, if you please! A fine example to set the students with all of this ruckus at the High Table!"

"Sorry, Headmistress," replied Rafe. As he turned back to survey the four House Tables again, he felt considerably better than he had before.

"_A balding giant,"_ he whispered to himself in a bemused fashion, his hand once again caressing the top of his head.

---

Rafe's head was buzzing as he gratefully sank into the embrace of one of the soft armchairs in the Staff Lounge, and not altogether in the good way. The Welcome Feast had been easy enough, he supposed, with his own part being limited to standing up, acknowledging his lukewarm round of applause and then sitting down again. The ceremony itself had been mildly interesting to see once again, but this time from the perspective of a faculty member. The food had been…pleasant…but all in all he had been a little too keyed-up to enjoy it on any level.

His vocation necessitated that he work in small, tightly-knit groups and he had therefore watched the to-ings and fro-ings of over six hundred people with considerable bewilderment, marvelling all the time that his memories of the years he had spent at Hogwarts featured none of this chaos and obviously had been entirely natural to him at the time. Quite when he had begun to be intimidated by crowds he didn't know, but a small voice at the back of his head informed him it would have been sometime after the Battle of the Brae when he had deliberately withdrawn from contact with all but his most intimate and trusted friends. It was at this point, when he was mulling over the past and staring into the low flames of the dying fire, that he was jerked from his reverie by the most unexpected and unwelcome of events.

Severus Snape arrived.

The instant the air pressure changed from the door being thrown rudely open, Rafe's eyes narrowed and his wand was in his hand. But rarely did people enter rooms in such a manner, and when they chose to do so it normally acted as a prelude to confrontation. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter and his bad leg he simply kept out of the equation by dint of lifting it slightly off the floor as he unfolded himself from the chair in a single fluid movement.

He rose swiftly, but nowhere as quickly as he was capable of doing, as upon entering the Auror College in Caerphilly he had soon discovered that his youthful fantasies of lightning-quick battles between Aurors and wrongdoers were the stuff of legend and nothing more. The quicker one moved, the longer it would subsequently take to draw a mark on one's target, and it was not the fastest spell but the surest aim which was the decisive factor in any set-to.

A slight twitch in his wand arm was all the reaction which the sight of the Prefect General bearing down on him elicited, a fact which was not lost on the other man as the distance between the two of them closed. In those brief moments before Snape came to a halt in front of the shorter man, their eyes remained locked and equally impassive as they each sought to appraise the other, with one seeking to intimidate and the other showing absolutely no sign of being so affected. The room was suddenly no longer the cosy haven it had been but moments before.

"_Professor_ Smith, I presume?" drawled the taller figure, the lilt of his voice making it plain the disdain which he felt for the one whom he was addressing.

"Yes, Prefect General," replied Rafe simply with a nod of his head. "May I be of assistance to you this evening?"

"Professor Smith, you are acceptably garbed for your station, but your comportment leaves a little to be desired, do you not think?" he sneered by way of reply. He flicked his eyes in turn towards the wand, the leg and the walking stick and then slowly raised his eyebrows, but did not evince any surprise when the wand was pocketed, the leg gingerly lowered to the floor and the walking stick flew up to meet it's owner's hand.

"Impressive, Professor Smith," he acknowledged. "Few are the people who master non-verbal wandless magic. I would have thought, however, that you would have been well-advised to keep such a rare talent 'under your hat', so to speak. I have always found that it is never wise to reveal hidden strengths."

"I thank the Prefect General for his advice, but what could I possibly hope to hide from him? All Aurors are both required and requested to disclose the full range of their abilities and such information is in my file, after all," was the shorter man's bland reply, although his flashing eyes gave the lie to his non-confrontational tone of voice.

"Quite," was the single word which was offered by way of acknowledgment. "But where are my manners, Professor Smith? Here you are, wounded in the course of rendering what was undoubtedly courageous and valuable service, and I have you on your feet. How _very_ thoughtless of me! Shall we take a seat?" he asked mockingly, casually indicating the cluster of armchairs to their side.

"Tell me, Professor Smith, have we met before?" he asked as they both sat in their armchairs, poised as if ready to spring up at a moment's notice.

"Prefect General, I graduated the academic year preceding you joining the faculty here at Hogwarts, so that would mean I was three academic years behind you and we were both here in the castle for four years. After Hogwarts, I joined the Ministry of Magic under the auspices of the Department of Law Enforcement, seconded to the Auror Training College in Caerphilly."

"I am well aware of your service history, Professor Smith, and you did not answer my question," Snape pointed out.

"I can state without a shadow of a doubt that we have not met before, Prefect General," stated Smith.

…

"Were you expecting me this evening?" demanded Snape after a long pause.

"The Prefect General is not a…"

"Yes or no!"

"No, I was not."

"Had Alastor Moody explicitly warned you that it was my intention to interview you this evening?"

"No."

"Very well, in which case let us begin. In your own words, Professor Smith, account for me how you came to be injured. Include any and all details which you believe would be relevant to your injury and seek not to hide, omit or obfuscate any information. I am an excellent liar, Professor, and I assure you that I would detect any such efforts on your part."

"In which case, Prefect General, I hope you have no pressing subsequent engagements this evening," sighed Smith as he tried to settle himself into a more comfortable position. "On Friday 20th July, 2006, two duty teams, one of Aurors and the other of M.L.E. Officers, were called to the Briefing Room on the Second Floor of the Ministry of Magic in London. Those two teams were comprised of me and Aubrey Booker, Maximillian Cooper and Piter de Vrees, whilst the Duty Officer responsible for briefing us as to the situation was Helen Fielding.

"D.O. Fielding had received information from named members of the public that the wanted felon Boris Halliwell had been sighted trying to sell cursed blades in Murk Terrace, Glasgow. Given his propensity for violence and track record for harming Muggles, it was feared that he might well leave that wizarding area and, in flagrant breach of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, assault, maim and even kill members of the non-magical community. The threat was judged to be real and immediate, resulting in Auror Booker and myself being attached to the customary pair of M.L.E. officers.

"Upon arriving at Murk Terrace via the Floo network, Officers Cooper and de Vrees immediately sought out the witnesses and obtained a clearer picture of the situation. As it happened, we were in luck as Halliwell did not seem to be aware that he had been spotted and had been observed to have entered a derelict warehouse. It was later established that he had been hiding there for quite some time.

"As is required by the law, the M.L.E. Officers were the ones to force entry into the warehouse as the landlord was unavailable to afford us his permission to do so. I would like to stress at this juncture that Officers Cooper and de Vrees were at all times exemplary models of professional conduct and were in no way responsible for my injury," stressed Smith.

"Spare me," demanded Snape testily. "Please rest assured that when I require an accounting of their actions, I shall enquire through the proper channels. I somehow doubt _you_ will be present in that case, however. Continue with _your_ account, if you please."

"We then entered the establishment which had neither electrical nor any other form of lighting and, as is mandated by Ministry Standard Operating Procedure, we swept the floors in pairs. Taking alternate levels we found nothing until we arrived at the fifth and final floor. I exited the stairway first, followed by Auror Booker and the two M.L.E. Officers. After that I remember relatively little. The first two rooms we checked were clear, but when we approached the third Halliwell popped out and hurled a handful of his knives at us.

"He had absolutely no idea of how to throw a knife, as was evidenced by the fact they just bounced off the walls and floor, but one of the blades nicked my leg on the rebound. The shock alone almost killed me as the necrotizing fasciitis he had magically induced to grow on the knives began to devour my leg. I fell to the floor and remember being dragged backwards, but I could see Aubrey…Auror Booker…standing over me, so it must have been one of the M.L.E. Officers who pulled me away.

"At this point, Prefect General, I can only provide you second-hand information as I was semi-conscious. Auror Booker apparently shielded us from the inept attack and proceeded to give Halliwell verbal warnings and an opportunity to stand down which, obviously, was ignored. Consequently, Auror Booker was forced to engage the target with lethal force and Halliwell was killed," finished Smith.

"How?" demanded Snape, drawing out the word as if to suggest impatience with a wayward schoolchild.

"Excuse me?"

"How did Booker kill Halliwell? Does your 'second-hand information' include that detail?" he sneered.

"I…er…I was told the spell used most probably struck a Dark artefact that he was carrying, which in turn caused some sort of explosion. As to the identity of said artefact, nobody was able to ascertain, as the considerable force of the detonation utterly destroyed whatever it was along with the majority of the suspect."

"Allegedly," stated Snape icily.

"Perhaps the Prefect General has been misinformed?" suggested Smith diplomatically. "I am given to understand the incident has already been investigated by personnel representing his office. As far as I'm aware, their findings concurred with the reports filed and the Pensieve memory of Officer Cooper."

Severus Snape regarded the remarkably unruffled man before him who gave absolutely no sign whatsoever of lying directly and little enough of doing so by omission. Smith's hands, eyes, breathing and manner of speaking all pointed towards him telling the truth, as indeed did the eye-witness accounts, yet Snape's instincts were telling him that there was something not quite right with the whole situation. In his opinion, Smith was too detached and too calm in the face of ultimate authority to be entirely unprepared for such a confrontation.

As any Slytherin knew perfectly well, the only safe conspiracy was planned and executed in a group of one. Common sense decreed that there were simply too many people involved in the dubious demise of Boris Halliwell for there to be any effective pact to prevent a hidden set of circumstances from coming to light. Having spoken to one of the two men bound up in the investigation, however, he now felt sure there was something amiss.

But rarely did he dabble in individual cases these days, preferring instead to keep the broad brush strokes of the large wizarding institutions under his steely, ever-disapproving gaze. However, he had personally investigated the facts of the killing after having heard from one of his operatives embedded in the Ministry of Magic that an all but vaporised body had been bought in to the mortuary. Such events were hardly uncommon in the wizarding world, but were generally only to be seen with the mismanagement of powerful potions or experimental artefacts. He knew that despite his suspicions the soft touch was required at this juncture lest he drive to ground whatever or whoever was lurking in the background. Now was the time to remain quiet so as not to arouse their fears or force their hands.

"In my abundant experience, _Professor_ Smith, seldom do Aurors disintegrate people with a mere flick of their wands. Without a shadow of a doubt Halliwell was carrying a highly illegal and dangerously powerful artefact, and I intend my office to redirect its efforts towards Glasgow where last the trail of said items was detected!" he announced as he rose to his feet.

"Please don't get up, Professor," he drawled, his out-stretched palm stalling Smith in his move to stand up. "I wish you luck in your new post and would seek to impress upon you the importance of such a post. One who was present at the Battle of the Brae ought to be well aware of the consequences of our institutions failing us," he stated coldly.

"The very thought of failure in my role here fills me with a dread I think you couldn't possibly imagine, Prefect General," replied Smith even more icily.

"Indeed?" retorted Snape. Staring down his long nose at the professor, he accepted the truth of the other's words. Presently he would be ensconced in his office and there he intended to dissect the entire lives of the five men who had been present in that Glaswegian warehouse. He would not rest until he had laid bare the undoubtedly ugly truth.

"Then we have no more to say to one another, Professor Smith. I bid you a pleasant evening," he added curtly before he turned on his heel and swept from the room.

---

Rafe sat in silent contemplation of this entirely unwelcome turn of events for quite some time. The gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the Staff Lounge went as unheeded as the time it marked, and the slow crumbling of the charred log into ashes occurred without witness. As the flames dwindled and the shadows deepened, the heavily-lined face of the man gradually grew more and more sombre.

"He just got back to his office!" snapped Moody's face without preamble from the embers of the fire.

"Mad-Eye, you were cutting it pretty fine with that heavy hint you gave me. When he asked me if you'd warned me about him coming to interview me I could answer truthfully that you hadn't, but not by much!"

"It's not my bloody fault! If you want to blame anyone, look to your housemate and that short bloody fuse of his! Time and time again I've warned both you and him about his nasty little temper, and look what goes and happens on a simple bloody mission with two Aurors and two M.L.E. Officers versus one inept criminal!"

"It was an accident, Mad-Eye," said Rafe somewhat wearily. "It was as much my fault for getting caught on the hop as it was his for losing his temper. If only Halliwell had used something nice like _Avada Kedavra_, we'd not be in this mess," he joked.

"Well if Snape's not off the scent by now, we may all come to share that sentiment!"

"True enough," acknowledged Rafe ruefully.

There was a long pause as the grizzled face in the embers scowled up at the younger man, and its expression softened slightly as it took in his subdued mood. Moody heaved a heavy sigh and licked his lips nervously, frowning as he looked down at the floor. Glancing up at Rafe again, he began to speak.

"Listen to me - you two are as safe as houses! Old Severus can dig his way to Australia and he'll find nothing to go on. The operation was done by the book, the criminal had a record as long as your arm, the whole operation was initiated by a random sighting and there were two M.L.E. Officers as witnesses. Talk about bloody luck! He'll probe and he'll sift and he'll scrutinise, but unless either of you stroll into his office to spill the beans even he will never figure it out as he's on the wrong trail – remember that!

"Now, you need to find a way to corner Aubrey and hammer all of that into his thick skull. From here on in he is the bloody personification of calm and restraint! You can bet the high and mighty Prefect General will have his spies' beady little eyes fixed on the two of you for quite some time to come, so no high jinks!"

"Tell Aubrey? Don't be daft, Mad-Eye; he'd throw a fit if he knew about tonight!"

"Tough luck! He has to know and you can tell him or I will – he needs to be on his guard, the idiot! Just make sure he doesn't…_do_ anything…when he finds out. Let me know the score by leaving me a message through the usual channels. I'm off - have to keep an eye on your new admirer!" Moody growled as his head withdrew.

"Perfect!" huffed Rafe as he flopped back into his armchair. That was one conversation he wasn't looking forward to as Aubrey was…more than a little touchy on the matter of their little secret. He leant back and stared into the comforting glow of the orange embers, planning just how he was going to broach the subject with his friend.

…

"Excuse me sir, I'm lost. Can you help me?" asked a tremulous voice.

Craning his neck to locate the speaker, Rafe found himself looking at a trembling First Year. She was hovering around outside the lounge to the Staff Door, which was still ajar from Snape's exit, and dressed as she was in school uniform was almost lost in the failing light.

"How did you come to be lost and to which House do you belong?" he asked in a tired voice.

"A ghost called Mr. Peeves said I was to help him, but he just disappeared when we were away from the others, Professor. I'm sorry, sir," she explained nervously. "I was sorted into Ravenclaw by the strange hat, sir."

"You're a Ravenclaw?" asked Rafe with a resigned air, thinking of all the stairs between the Staff Lounge and that distant tower. "Come on, I'll show you the way and explain a few things about 'Mr. Peeves' as we go," he said as he struggled to his feet.

It was a mundane end to a taxing day.


	7. Pearls of Wisdom

**Chapter 7 – Pearls of Wisdom**

"_Wise men, though all laws were abolished, would lead the same lives."_

_  
Aristophanes_

**8.45pm – Tuesday 5****th**** September 2006**

The thick fug which filled the Hog's Head even at this relatively early hour and the noise generated by its less-than-savoury clientele assured Aubrey and Rafe that they were free to talk. Admittedly, they would have to speak without being too specific in case a memory of this conversation was ever to be extracted from either of their heads, but that was highly improbable. Besides, after having conducted undercover surveillances of countless suspects and buildings, they both knew how to hold a perfectly innocuous conversation.

"What's up, Rafe?" asked Aubrey as he sloshed his half-finished ale around in his tankard. He had been slowly coming around to the idea of his friend serving out his convalescence at the school, but now he was feeling distinctly uneasy in the face of the sour expression which marred the lined face across the table from him.

"Trouble," replied Rafe simply. "Our beloved boss tipped me the wink that the Greasy One might be popping in for a visit and thank Merlin the grumpy old sod did, because that very evening the greasy git did indeed swoop down from the rafters."

"And?" prompted Aubrey with his heart already racing and his knuckles straining white against his tankard. Like many people with short tempers, he worked hard at controlling it and took to working a finger into the cracks in the wood below his hands. His efforts earned him little more than a nail begrimed with the tacky black patina formed by decades, if not centuries, of spilled drinks. Taking slow, calming breaths he awaited the next piece of bad news.

"Nothing much," sniffed Rafe in a thoroughly unconvincing show of indifference. "He thought he smelt a rat, but all of the preparations bore fruit and he left with nothing. Of course, we always knew we might find ourselves under the spotlight, but so far, so good. Remember just who set up our protection donkeys' years ago – we've no need to worry about anything as I reckon even the Greasy One would have a hard time outwitting _Him_!"

"Perhaps," was the grunted, sullen reply. Aubrey was scanning the pub in an automatic manner as he digested this unwelcome piece of news, and the way he hung his head in that sulky manner of his brought back a vivid memory of him as a boy to his friend's mind. Sending his own eyes around the throng, he waited for whatever backlash would eventually seep out of the taller wizard's defences. He was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when his friend's reply was uttered in a calm tone of voice.

"Did Moody say anything else…anything useful?"

"Just that we had to keep calm and make sure there were no repeats of what happened to Halliwell."

"Ha! I'd gladly go back and kill him a whole lot slower if I had the chance. Reckon we could get our hands on a Time Turner again? We could..." he trailed off quickly at the look of alarm on his friend's face. "I was just joking and no one's going to overhear us in here by mundane or magical methods, as well you know," he harrumphed.

"We'll be fine."

"We would have been if I hadn't…"

"I would have reacted the same way had it been you lying on the floor, mate. I'd have lost my rag too! I mean, it's not as if I can afford to lose you, is it? Neither of us have that many friends in the world, after all," Rafe interjected quietly but with unmistakeable sincerity as his piercing blue eyes met those of his friend for the briefest of moments.

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have done _that_," muttered his friend in an embarrassed tone of voice.

"Bollocks! Just forget it and carry on as we have all this time. The Greasy One has nothing and there is absolutely no way he ever will unless either of us hands it to him on a platter. Now, let's drink up and get back to the cottage. I could do with some toasted cheese for supper and I'll be damned if I'm going to eat in this cess pit – even your cooking beats what they have here...probably."

"Rafe, it's altogether possible that I might just _hate_ you!" quipped Aubrey with the first faint smile he had cracked in quite some time.

*

In a different part of Britain there was another wooden table, however this example had little to do with the battered-yet-solid affairs to be found in the Hog's Head. _This_ table was constructed from the very finest exotic hardwood and shone in a way that only energetic, daily polishing with Chizpurfle wax could achieve. _This_ table boasted slender legs which were adorned with elaborate carved fretwork which tempted the beholder's eye to follow the intricate, winding designs on their seemingly endless journeys. _This_ table sought to remind those who sat around it just who was in charge by dint of being long and thin and thereby forcing all present to uncomfortably turn their heads towards the person seated at its head.

The individual in question managed to poise his body in such a way as to suggest he was completely at his ease, yet not so much as to suggest he was unaware of every nuance of both the body language and the spoken words which his guests used. The tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes was every inch at home as he surveyed those seated around him, and he took time to make eye contact with each and every one of them as he allowed them to get the inevitable gossiping out of their systems. To try to bring them to order before they had exhausted their small talk on topics of mutual interest would be to risk subsequent interruptions. Such things were best avoided when trying to lead stubborn men and women by their noses, he had learned.

Blaise Zabini was arrogant, it was true, but his natural good looks and unforced personal charm allowed him to carry it off without alienating many people. It was his keen intellect which allowed him to sit at the head of this table as he was able to effortlessly balance the constant ebb and flow of conflicting wants and desires of those who were seated there. The rag tag bunch included the directionless malcontents who were more suited to the type of direct action which had so recently embarrassed Provost Marshall Moody. They saw themselves as master-less warriors and would quite happily carry out the bidding of anyone who nodded sympathetically in response to their frustration with the current oppressive regime.

The real movers and shakers, therefore, were the individuals who both knew enough to keep to the shadows and who were possessed of the skill to accrue followers who could be manipulated. The cabal which had formed around the urbane young man – and how his lips twitched when he thought of describing the assembled witches and wizards with such a melodramatic word – had formed naturally enough. They were purebloods for the most part and had been more than a little disgruntled with the way things had been changing in their society, even if they were having trouble putting a finger on just what it was that they did not care for.

The most visible change which had been wrought was the fact that they now had a more formal society with less Muggle influence than had previously been the case. The loss of the old ways had always been one of the bugbears of those gathered around this table, so they could hardly complain on that count. Ironically, nor could they even allude to their satisfaction with the more conservative attitude of magical society, as to do so would be to condone the current status quo with the ever unpredictable and horribly powerful Prefect General Snape safely ensconced at the top of the hierarchy alongside the more regular power structure of the Ministry of Magic. They felt excluded from power, however. Not grubby elected power – perish the thought of deriving power from a popular vote, of all things – but the sort which good breeding and access to the right people could bring about: quiet power…_eternal_ power. Snape had, in effect, stripped them of their amusement in life – that of plotting against and frustrating one another in the ultimate game of chess. In many ways, Blaise mused, they were little different from the rabble who waved ill-assorted magical placards at Ministry functions. However, what could he expect?

To make matters worse, whilst the Prefect General kept a beady eye fixed on others whom he found to be suspicious, he had not so much as lifted a finger against many of those who had lorded their superior social standing and blood status over him whilst at Hogwarts or indeed after their schooling. It was all most frustrating from the point of view of one who wished to foment civil disobedience as, at first glance, there seemed precious little to rebel against. Somebody in power was very intelligent and adept in the art of subtle manipulation, and the only question was which Slytherin it was: Snape or Scrimgeour.

Smiling in rueful yet genuine admiration of his enemies, Blaise straightened ever so slightly in his chair and cleared his throat. In less than a minute, silence fell around the table. He had timed his interruption impeccably as the fact that most conversations had run their natural courses meant that those present were now ready for different entertainment. The fact that they quietened down and listened out of interest, however, did give the impression that the young wizard had more authority than was actually the case...yet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please let me express my gratitude for your having taken time out of your busy schedules to be here this evening. I am aware that all those present here this evening represent powerful factions in our society and that pressing matters await each and every one of you at home," he began, mixing a dash of humility with a more generous measure of flattery.

"I would not have thought to request this meeting had it not been for the fact that disturbing new developments have come to light regarding the long-term plans of the Ministry of Magic...plans which will directly affect the children currently being moulded in an education system which is already stifling to unorthodox thought and practices," he outlined quickly, knowing full well that to fail to arrest their attention at the beginning of his short speech would be fatal to his plans.

"To be more specific, it is the fact that a relatively innocuous change to the approved curriculum at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry augurs a very dangerous change in the entrenched attitudes of future generations of our kind! Both your own families and the lesser bloodlines who constitute the tradesman and mercantile professions upon whom we rely to maintain our standard of living will become, in effect, automatons who will _never_ question the actions of the Ministry of Magic as the collection of free-thinkers who are gathered here tonight dare to do."

"Get to the point, Zabini! Things could hardly be worse than they are right now," groused Michael Basehart from near the foot of the table. Impatient as ever, he could be relied upon to push along a presentation at a decent clip.

"I beg to differ, sir," Blaise disagreed with a deferential nod to the elderly wizard. "This change is of an order of magnitude altogether more serious than anything which has come before. Basically, Severus Snape has ordered that the syllabus subject History of Magic be replaced by _Moral Behaviour_ and Wizarding History. I stress the first two words unnecessarily, I see, judging by the expressions upon many of the faces around this table. Basically, all pretence has been shed and now the ministry will force-feed their view of the world upon young and impressionable minds! Who needs an _Imperio_ charm when seven years of school will do just as well?"

"This...this is unconscionable!" bleated Atheling Fry, the aged patriarch of another pure-blood family. "This is..."

"This is nothing! It is simply a case of bureaucrats moving and changing things unnecessarily in order to justify their existences," interrupted Gertrude Zelle, much to Blaise's irritation. The mother of one of his fellow Slytherin year mates, she cared little about politics and was worried only about improving her already luxurious standard of living. She was an ignoramus amongst ignoramuses to be sure, but one who might well block his plans albeit by accident.

"Dear Madam Zelle, your words are both as impressive as your standing in society and your beauty, but I fear that we have all been taken in by a Ministry more perfidious than even the most paranoid amongst us could have imagined. The term _'Moral Behaviour'_ means the children are to be influenced in what they believe and how they perceive the world! The next generation would never entertain the concept of sitting here in reasonable debate, so bovine will they be after seven years of indoctrination!

"Are Muggles to be seen as equal value as one so high as yourself? Should grasping, avaricious Goblins be permitted to carry wands in the same street as a pureblood? Ought we to allow Centaurs the opportunity to demand that the Wizengamot strip any of us here today of lands which they claim once belonged to them?" he demanded in tones of increasing incredulity until he stopped dead. Let the possibilities sink in to their heads that this might hit them in the pocket and then suddenly they would all rush to see it as a battle of principle and honour, he told himself.

"If I might make just one suggestion?" he asked into the uncomfortable silence. "We must proceed carefully, but with trivial amounts of our combined resources I am sure that we will be able to uncover hard evidence of the Ministry's intentions. Once we are in possession of such documents, we can either force a change _discreetly_..." and here he paused for the appreciative murmurs of those present to his oblique reference to blackmail to subside. "Alternatively, we could simply publish the details and watch as the inevitable denials simply served to further damage the already tarnished reputation of those in power."

"You willingly undertake to do this alone? You're aware that we would simply disavow any knowledge of the methods you might employ in order to obtain any such evidence?" asked Gertrude Zelle shrewdly.

"I am," Blaise replied simply yet firmly. "At present, all I require are contacts as I will begin with the newly-appointed faculty member - one Rafael Smith. Undoubtedly he is little more than a Ministry stooge, and in and of himself he is harmless enough, but we may be lucky enough to unearth something of interest there," he commented.

"_You_ may be lucky enough, boy!" stressed Atheling Fry quickly. "Should you come to the attention of that upstart Snape, you shall be on your own, d'you hear me?"

"Indeed I do, sir," agreed Blaise smoothly. "Indeed I do."

*


	8. Proof Undeniable

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction and is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros. or any other individual or corporation involved in the distribution of Harry Potter material.**

**Chapter 8 – Proof Undeniable**

"_You cannot demonstrate an emotion or prove an aspiration__."_

_John Morely, 1__st__ Viscount of Blackburn_

**10.2****5am – Thursday 7****th**** September 2006**

Admiralty Arch was one of those many wonderfully idiosyncratic buildings which dotted London's streets. Relatively young by the standards of that city, it had been commissioned by King Edward VII in order to commemorate his late mother, Queen Victoria. Almost - but not quite - a semi-circle, this grey stone icon provided pedestrian and traffic access between The Mall to the south and Trafalgar Square to the north. Not that its resident workers were ever aware of the constant thundering of Muggle vehicles, however, as the standard charms kept them blissfully unaware of the ceaseless racket wrought by their non-magical kin scant feet from their desks. For here, in this unpresumptuous and rather cramped building were the offices of the Prefect General and his small retinue.

Not many people sought to beat a path to that particular door, but those who were either obliged to present themselves or who chose to cross the threshold were flabbergasted by the very non-magical environment which greeted them. Whilst perhaps not quite resembling a Muggle office, there was none of the overt magic which made the Ministry of Magic such an anarchic place to work. Here were narrow, carpeted corridors lit either by daylight from the large, arched windows by day or by the unostentatious wall-mounted brass oil lamps by night. Old portraits, very obviously non-magical due to their occupants' static nature, were the only adornments to what was an austere working environment.

All doors were to be left open at all times, revealing a variety of staid men and women dressed very correctly in semi-formal robes. Headwear was not encouraged by the building's master, meaning no example of such apparel was ever to be seen past the staff cloakroom. Indeed, the vast majority of the workforce went so far as to eschew their customary hats even when travelling to and from their office. When the Prefect General opined upon a matter, seldom did he have do to so on more than one occasion. All in all, it seemed as if everything possible had been done to distance the culture of this powerful entity from that of its older counterpart.

The only difference between Severus Snape's office and those of his underlings was that he, obviously, did not share. The furniture was no different than in any other office, its dimensions were remarkably similar and the small fire which crackled under the mantelpiece was permitted to any and all who worked in the building. No, what marked this room apart from all others was the fact that there only books and no files to be found there. From floor to ceiling on all four walls, books were arranged neatly in their cramped little shelves. The only spaces free of the tomes were the window, door and immediately above the fireplace.

It was against the same wall as the door leading into his office that the Prefect General kept his desk. This location afforded him the twin benefits of being out of the direct line of the strong daylight which streamed in from the window opposite the door as well as putting put any and all that entered his office at a distinct disadvantage. First of all they would have the light in their eyes the instant they entered and secondly they would also have a poor line of sight on the room's occupant should their intentions prove hostile. As was more normally the case, however, the hostility flowed in the other direction.

"Late!" stated Snape as his latest personal assistant tottered through the door whilst supporting a precariously balanced pile of files. The sober young wizard with the neatly-parted black hair was a very popular individual in the office as he was by far the longest serving aide-de-camp to the Prefect General. That meant no one else had to suffer the pointed comments which, whilst superficially seemed rather mild, had the habit of making one feel extremely uncomfortable.

"I believe not, sir," he answered blandly as he separated the swaying tower of paper into the three main sub-divisions his master had demanded: one for all matters pertaining to the death of Boris Halliwell and one stack each for both the attending Aurors and M.L.E. Officers. The files were colour-coded and immaculately presented on the large table in the middle of the room which was for the rare occasions when the Prefect General wished to sift through large amounts of apparently unconnected information.

"Although you did indeed stipulate a one hour window of time to collate the information, sir, you added the request for tea after setting that deadline. Therefore, you are responsible for my late arrival and it must be discounted," he replied neutrally as he darted out of the door to return almost instantly with a silver tea service. Snape said nothing as it was perfectly true. Some of his past assistants had been shown the door for being over-solicitous whilst others had been dismissed as they were dullards. No small amount had been timorous stutterers and a few foolishly cordial. What Snape wanted was someone who spoke only when spoken to and who could not be cowed if he was not in the wrong. Martin Ludd was such an individual so far.

"Sit. Report," ordered Snape brusquely as he cast his usual charms to detect anything untoward with his tea.

"There would appear to be nothing to report, Prefect General. Having personally verified each and every minute of the day in question as directed, I can vouch that every word in these files is true. A random sighting from a member of the public..."

"Name?"

"Granville Wroughton, sir, who is a glass blower in the employ of Chard's Potions in Murk Terrace, Glasgow. I have viewed the Pensieve memories and the man just happened to look up from his work and see Halliwell lurking in an alley opposite his own shop's window. His memory jogged, Wroughton immediately looked at his copy of the Daily Prophet where a likeness of the suspect had been published on the front page due to the anniversary of his previous murder. He had learned early on never to speak of or even allude to luck, so pressed on.

"Upon receiving the call from Mr. Wroughton, the local Magical Law Enforcement Office contacted the Ministry of Magic and liaised with the Duty Officer, Helen Fielding. As per standard procedure, D.O. Fielding dispatched M.L.E. Officers Cooper and de Vrees and Aurors Booker and Smith to apprehend Halliwell. These officers were on roster that evening out of schedule as another team had been called to Folkestone by the Muggle Liason Office due to the report of a magical creature in the Channel Tunnel.

"The only irregularity of the whole evening seems to be the fact that the Auror who killed the suspect failed to file his memories. Apparently, this was due to the distress he felt at his partner's – one Raphael Smith – near death. Instead, the M.L.E. Officers both filed Pensieve Reports which entirely corroborate all accounts of the encounter," he stated as he folded his hands at his waist.

"Ludd, how can you learn if you will not see?" drawled Snape. He was staring over the rim of his tea cup into the middle distance, but his voice was sharp and not at all dreamy. "There are two major points of interest in this whole affair. The lesser is the fact that there was only enough left of Boris Halliwell's mortal remains to fill a shoe box. Granted, this has been explained away by a conveniently mysterious Dark artefact exploding after having been hit by Auror Booker's stunning spell, but it is still noteworthy. Rather more interesting, however, are the personal files of the two Aurors."

Ludd frowned as he recalled the details from those dossiers. He was quite familiar with the prefect General's teaching methods and even appreciated them. Answers which were given had no value as the mind had not had to work to achieve them. Solutions which were the result of a logical chain of thought, however, taught one how to deduce. This time he was defeated and he indicated as much after a few long moments with a single shake of his head and a frustrated expression on his face.

"Their families?" prompted Snape.

"They have none," was the prompt reply. "Smith was not only a single child, but an exceedingly late one. His father died of natural causes attributable to old age in St. Mungo's Hospital in 1997 and his mother died at the Battle of the Brae although strangely enough she suffered a massive coronary immediately after the battle. Booker's progenitors, on the other hand, died whilst holidaying in Aspen, Colorado – their sledge overturned in a whiteout killing both themselves and the driver."

"Two men with no parents, siblings or indeed cousins," observed the older man.

"Uncommon, I admit, but hardly grounds for..." Ludd stopped the instant Snape raised an index finger.

"In and of itself it signifies nothing. In conjunction with the physical fact of Halliwell's death it is a confluence of two oddities. In and of itself that requires the attention of a suspicious eye, but layered with the reaction of Alastor Moody to my enquiries into the matter, it is altogether something else, Ludd. There is something here which I cannot fathom and that alone is reason enough to probe all the more deeply into this matter. I sense another hand in this matter and if I cannot see it clearly, it is indeed a subtle force."

"Your instructions, sir?"

"Leave me. Return to your duties and I shall summon you as and when I have need of you again. No - wait. Before you leave you will bring to me a situation comparable to this one in that a hidden enemy was revealed by happenstance. You shall explain how a igorous application of logical methods might have uncovered the truth sooner. Go."

The young wizard bowed his head and left swiftly. He was not unpleased by what he thought of as the 'homework' the prefect General had set him. These little tasks were meant to train him - to teach him valuable lessons – and he did find them stimulating. After all, if he failed, he would be summarily dismissed from his post. The thrill and fear of the hunt were what he valued in this otherwise seemingly rigid organisation.

Snape pursed his lips as he looked down at the Auror's files. He had crossed to the large table the instant the door had closed behind Ludd and flipped through both cardboard folders with the very tip of a finger. The same digit had then lightly drawn the photographs of two young witches towards him. He frowned as he regarded them.

"Sit down now or it'll be a detention with Mr. Filch!" barked Rafe. He was surprised at himself, but the fact that the children were taking such a time to choose their seats based on the colour of their prospective partners' school houses bothered him inordinately. Of course, he remembered when he had been exactly the same, but now he knew the world was full of things more important than unnecessary – deliberately induced, even – prejudice. Perhaps later he would ask Hero about the logic behind the school houses, he thought to himself. It was slightly curious that post-Voldemort the divisive system had continued without modification, he found.

He breathed deeply, deliberately trying to calm himself by looking around this half-forgotten classroom. In his day practically nobody had elected to study History of Magic under Professor Binns past the mandatory O.W.L.s, but now, of course, there was no escape. Moral Behaviour and Wizarding History was now a set part of the curriculum until the N.E.W.T. exams and that was that. Hiding the fact that he had screwed his eyes tight shut by rubbing his forehead with the hand not clasped rigid around his walking-stick, he instead concentrated on his other senses.

That almost-forgotten odour of dusty classrooms and sun-warmed wood immediately filled his nose. Simultaneously, the scrapes of chairs, thumps of bags hitting the floor and the clatter of heels – all muffled by the aged wooden floorboards – assailed his ears and he was hit by an epiphany: no matter how much he wished to be back in London and had never wanted to set foot in this place again after the traumatic events of the Battle of the Brae, he loved Hogwarts in every fibre of his being. Unfortunately, the deep-rooted affection which he felt for what he considered to be his first ever home was tempered by an equally ingrained loathing for the school and himself caused by that final battle against Voldemort and all it had entailed. Rafe sighed.

Unconsciously fingering the thinning hair on the back of his head, he watched dourly as the children rapidly moved to obey him. His sour expression was caused by his throbbing leg, but they weren't to know that. Poppy Pomfrey was coming up to retirement now, but she was even fussier about the health of the faculty that the students if that were possible and she had been over the top when he had been young. Either that or Minerva had made sure to set the elderly healer on the _lame duck_, he thought to himself. Chiding himself for those uncharitable thoughts, he pushed away from the desk where he had been leaning and looked down at his charges. Without so much as checking their names in the class register he launched into his prepared diatribe with genuine heat, determined as he was to shock them out of their juvenile complacency.

"My name is Smith and I am the Professor of Moral Behaviour and Wizarding History. Do not speak unless I invite you to do so and pay attention – I may be asking questions later," he stated matter-of-factly. Shifting his weight to his good leg, he started to lightly bump his walking stick up and down on the floor as he spoke. Only occasionally did he look up from his contemplation of the floor, but when he did so it was to the undivided attention of his students.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, today Wizardkind enjoys an excellent quality of life. This is something we may come to understand if and when we take Muggle Studies or indeed if we come from a partly or wholly Muggle background. Perhaps the most important indicator of this fact is the long life expectancy of the average witch or wizard. Whereas there exists no appreciable difference between the two sexes, there does exist an enormous difference between Muggles and Wizards. Putting aside the use of such artefacts as the Philosopher's Stone or Afghani Tears, due to the use of magic in healthcare we might reasonably expect to live to about 120 years of age. The average for a Muggle is 67.2 years, but that shockingly low figure is the global as opposed to western industrialised life expectancy which is about ten years higher. Merlin helps those Muggles who live in the very poorest countries – Swaziland, for example – where they do not reach their fortieth year, on average. The value of magic, therefore, is inestimable!

"Less quantifiable than age is the quality of life which we lead. Those who are purebloods or who have spent little or no time around Muggles simply cannot comprehend just how comparatively awful their lives are. Of course, many of them do not think so simply due to the fact that they have nothing against which to compare, but they spend all day every day in dull little jobs which afford them little or no satisfaction whatsoever. Half of their economy is based on desperate people doing demeaning jobs for others who can afford not to do them. For example, can you imagine cleaning toilets for a living? The very idea is anathema to a witch or wizard who with a simple, 'Scourgify', can clean anything. Apply this to any number of menial tasks such as painting walls, sweeping streets, preparing the raw ingredients for a meal, moving heavy objects and perhaps…just perhaps…you might begin to comprehend the reality of the situation," he said heavily before once again leaning back against the solid oak desk in order to relieve the weight on his good leg.

"You may or may not know that in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the average Muggle spends just under two hours a day travelling to and from work - two hours! If you were to tally the actual amount of time a day that a Muggle was free to spend on his or her chosen pursuits, why, it would amount to little more than an hour! Just one hour? Wizardkind, were they to be fully cognisant of this fact, would be horrified. It is virtual slavery, after all. If not in thrall to others, Muggles are undoubtedly in thrall to themselves. Stress-related illnesses are one of the major factors detrimentally affecting the lifespan of our non-magical brethren. Again, the value of magic and the beneficial effect it has on our lives is priceless.

"Magic and value, value and magic; it is all very well to bandy around these terms, but what do they really mean? There was a famous - or infamous, depending on your point of view - Muggle politician called Karl Marx. This man claimed that the fruit of any given labour belonged to the worker who produced it and not to the employer; that labour was, in and of itself, valuable. This is wrong of course.

"Can you cook? According to my housemate I certainly can't. If I tried I would turn raw ingredients - flour, eggs, sugar and yeast - into an inedible mess whereas a skilled chef would produce a loaf of bread with a certain value. These ingredients have a potential value which I reduce to zero whilst another multiplies it. A master chef might even produce a masterpiece which would have people paying hundreds of times the amount needed to purchase the constituent elements and labour required.

"What does this mean to you? Why do the affairs of Muggles, people from whom we must hide ourselves and our society, affect you? Consider the following, if you will: how long does it take to create something magically? The more complex the item, the longer it takes and the more effort and expertise it requires. Professor McGonagall can produce 'valuable' things - items with monetary worth - with little effort. I cannot, nor can the majority of Wizardkind. The professor is a master of her craft. However, if we asked her to produce valuable crystal goblets, she wouldn't be able to do so faster than somebody could destroy them.

"And this is the crux of the matter: it is easier to destroy than to create!

"It is not only easier, but it is quicker and, for many people, more gratifying. We owe a duty of care to our society and must eradicate those who seek to undermine it. Never again will cancers such as corrupt bureaucrats, corrupting influence-pedlars or inept politicians be tolerated. A few short years ago I waded through the dead and dying out there," he said hotly, waving his walking stick at the windows, "and I for one will fight to defend the peace we have today. Not physically for the time being, perhaps, but by trying to drill into your thick skulls the privileged position you all enjoy and the price which must be paid for us all in order to enjoy it," he said softly, eyeing them all one by one as he finished.

"It has been decided by the powers that be that we cannot allow young children to have their perspective of the world skewed by biased parents, their own inattentiveness or even sheer apathy. No matter what your views are regarding Muggles or your fellow Wizardkind, you will be made to understand that we all need a safe, stable environment as a platform for our day-to-day activities. Anyone who seeks to rock the boat, as it were, will be dealt with swiftly and harshly by the authorities or, in an emergency, any nearby adult. This is not a license to act as we will as we shall always be subject to the scrutiny of our peers and our superiors, but it is a very different way from the lackadaisical philosophy of our world pre-Voldemort.

"In short, if any of us step out of line to any significant degree we will suffer the consequences!

"Questions?" he sighed, preparing himself for the inevitable wave of inanities and querulous indignation. In the few moments of silence it took the young children to nervously look at one another and for the first hand to creep up, Rafe felt a wave of nausea wash over him. Why the sudden anger and weariness, especially as he was here to inform a collection of small children who were no more ignorant of this subject than any other on their academic syllabus. They did not deserve such hostility from him and as he looked up he carefully schooled his features into a more welcoming expression.

"Yes, Mr...?'

"Redcar, Professor Smith; Jason Redcar of Gryffindor," he said, seemingly proud of his house as he smiled and looked at his classmates as he stood up.

"Your question is what, Mr. Redcar?"

"My Dad says the Ministry has too much power!" he said with a small frown of conviction.

"Well, that is a statement rather than a question, but do I take your point regardless. A few short years ago the public accused the Ministry of Magic of being toothless and not doing enough, so all it has done is responded to oft-stated concerns, hasn't it?"

"But what if it takes all the power, Professor?" a frighteningly small girl from Hufflepuff piped up.

"The more you try to take power, the more people resist – it has to be given to you if you want to avoid resistance," Rafe replied with a shrug.

"But Dad says anyone could just do what they did last time and target the Ministry. He reckons all the 'reins of power' are just there to be picked up by anyone with half a brain," said the original boy, screwing up his face when he dredged his memory for what the adults in his life seemed to think.

"It's possible, but were that to happen the people who wear these," he said, tapping the concentric blue rings of the Order of Wizarding Merit which, as per Ministry edict, were pinned to the front of whatever robes he happened to be wearing when not on active Auror duty, "would step in."

"But, sir..."

Rafe fingered the back of his head as he realised this would be a long and fruitless questions and answers session.


	9. Etiquette

**Chapter ****9 – Etiquette**

"_The truest expression of a people is in its dances and its music. Bodies never lie.__"_

_Agnes George de Mille_

**9.15pm ****– Saturday 30****th**** September 2006**

Had it not been for the presence of Ludd, Severus Snape would not have suppressed the involuntary shiver which shot up his spine at the sound of the initial staccato beats of the Pavane. The stark sound of the solitary tabor – for once unamplified by magic - reverberated from the walls of the Atrium in the Ministry of Magic as the assembled witches and wizards, all garbed in formal dress robes, advanced slowly to meet one another in the centre of the great cavern. To see so many of his kind together and comporting themselves in the manner of civilised adults was a sight which even he had once never dreamed to hope he would look upon. The dancers' perfectly synchronized movements seemed a perfect metaphor for the cultural superiority, the discipline and the maturity of the magical elite.

If ever he had been possessed of a weakness, it was vanity. Certainly not the gaudy, personal, external variety so often displayed by those with access to money or power, but rather the internal, discomfited acknowledgement of a desire to eradicate forever the stain left by the unfortunate beginning to his life. Ever since he had come to the office of Prefect General, he had exerted a slow but steady pressure to steer Wizardkind away from the 'Muggle chic' which had oh-so-slowly come to seduce and corrupt the youth of recent years. By tackling the almost irresistible inertia created by the parallel non-magical counterpart to this society, he had also exorcised the tarnish of his own Muggle roots. Of course, he would never admit that to anyone: _Death before Dishonour_, as the age-old maxim went. Tonight, however, here in the presence of the crème-de-la-crème of what he embraced as his own kind, he marvelled and revelled in the purity of expression of both the culture and the superiority of magic users.

"_'From the wings I heard and watched the pavane of tragedy move steadily towards its climax,'_ Ludd," he murmured. "It is a quote from relatively obscure Muggle literature, but I recommend you look it up and ponder its significance. It may be that 'know thy enemy' is a distressingly vague exhortation, but it is no less valuable for being so."

"Yes, Prefect General," was the murmured reply. Martin Ludd offered no further comment as he knew full well why they were both in attendance at the Annual Ministry of Magic Gala: they were hunting. Perhaps observing might have been a more accurate representation of their activity, but such a word was too benign to ascribe to the person and office of the Prefect General.

As the accompanying brace of violins eased themselves into the simple stream of the dance, Snape drew himself together with no small effort and renewed his search for his quarry that evening. The annual Ministry of Magic Gala was hardly the ideal venue for such surveillance, after all. Whereas it was true the thronging crowd of people below scrupulously adhered to the formal dress code required for such an occasion, they had not that evening – nor indeed had they ever in the past – all chosen the same colour. The mélange of hues and shades often struck those from a Muggle background as somewhat garish, but here in the wizard world it was entirely the norm. Unfortunately, Messrs. Smith and Booker seemed to be perfect examples of Aurors in that they preferred nondescript robes of black and that would make finding them all the more difficult. Consequently, he had instead determined to locate their companions for the evening – a task which promised to prove much easier.

Not long after he had entered the Ministry of Magic through a fireplace temporarily-connected to the Floo Network, the Prefect General had been handed a scrap of parchment by Ludd. Noted there had been the wardrobe choices for the evening of both Ginevra Weasley and Hermione Granger. The latter, as she always did on such occasions, had elected to wear a rather unorthodox shoulder-cape. This did not reveal her pretensions to be any kind of trend-setter in the pages of Witch Weekly, but rather showed that she was well aware that the sang-froid which she displayed towards her disfigurement was not palatable for the vast majority of witches and wizards. And a fuchsia-clad witch without bare shoulders ought not to tax the sharp eyes of Severus Snape, after all. The former witch, on the other hand, would be wearing Imperial Purple by all accounts. Whereas the colour was by no means uncommon in high society, her mass of dark red hair should prove distinctive enough for her to be easily distinguishable.

How would they both feel this evening, he mused, as they would have no other choice but to walk passed the dark bronze statue of Harry Potter. Placed on the exact spot where the insufferable brat had fallen when Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort had conducted that most _puissant_ of duels, most Ministry workers were confronted with the figure at least twice a day as they made their ways into and out of the underground complex by way of the Atrium. Of course, as with almost every object on one's day-to-day environment it soon faded into the background. So much so, in fact, that often the cursed object would have to be cleaned when workers left grease stains on the plinth from lunch bags negligently set down atop of it for convenience – a turn of events which the Prefect General found not altogether displeasing.

Chiding himself for having let his thoughts wander, he pursed his lips as his eyes came to rest on at least part of what he had been seeking. Aurors were a notoriously tight-knit group and absolutely could not resist forming a clique for at least a few minutes at the beginning of any social gathering. It was in that slowly-growing knot that his eyes found Miss Weasley and, via her, Aubrey Booker. Well might this man have blasted Boris Halliwell to smithereens judging by the look of him; bulk without any obvious grace, strength lacking precise application, aggression without obvious intelligence to direct it: in short, all the hallmarks of an over-muscled oaf. Yet, there was something which...

There! Miss Granger was laughing uproariously with her head thrown back before reigning herself in and looking around with a guilty expression as she covered her mouth with her hand. Well that she might – this was a formal dress evening, after all, and not one of her informal little get-togethers with Miss Weasley. It was altogether more than the clothes, the music and the cuisine which marked this evening out as somewhat more refined than the ordinary social gatherings of wizardkind, Snape acknowledged. It was the slow decorum with which all present conducted themselves that was the telling factor: here were adults prepared to take the things to do things _correctly_.

The decorous sweep of the pavane suited the elegantly swaying dress robes of those present – both men and women – although the original incarnation had been for Muggle aristocrats at a time when the men wore tight hose of the very finest wool or silk. The measured steps had originated in 16th century Italy but were of Spanish origin and had fittingly displaced more frivolous and unseemly dances – a small irony which was not lost on Snape.

"Now, sir," remarked Ludd quietly.

The almost-dispiritingly handsome young man who would be the main focus for this evening's outing if the Prefect General could only ignore any and all distractions finally made his move. Both Ludd and his master leant back slightly so as to ensure their faces were cloaked in the shadows of the unlit balcony on which they stood, but the possibility that Blaise Zabini would ever had noticed them was remote to say the least. So intent was he on the man he was about to meet that he might well have failed to notice a rampaging hippogriff at his side. A mild disappointment washed through Snape that an otherwise intelligent Slytherin could so lose focus, but he brushed that irritation aside as his heart quickened as the denouement of the evening's activities approached.

Zabini nodded curtly at the wizened old man he was meeting and moved to stand ramrod-straight at his side. What should have been a rapid conversation as the younger man confirmed the details of the personal file he was bribing the Prefect General's planted agent to provide proved to be quite protracted. The agent looked taken aback as he shook his head emphatically, yet Zabini was not to be dissuaded. He smiled urbanely, nodded in encouragement and very discreetly slipped the older man a large bag which must have contained gold. After a few moments of seemingly fevered deliberation, the elderly wizard acquiesced and scuttled off through the crowd.

He was back soon enough and a tightly furled sheath of parchments changed hands before Zabini – every inch the unruffled man about town – sauntered off to join some of his coterie in leisurely conversation – feigned or genuine it was impossible to tell. Snape scrutinized the man until Ludd whispered with the elderly agent and approached to reveal the identity of the man whose file had been stolen.

"Smith, sir, and…Booker, surprisingly," reported Ludd.

"That Mr. Zabini was interested in obtaining Rafael Smith's Ministry personnel file is hardly surprising, but that of Booker as well? That would indeed be unanticipated if Zabini planned anything other than direct action against Smith which doesn't make the slightest sense at all. A kidnap or a murder would serve only at arouse both my own interest and that of the Provost Marshall, and even a Hufflepuff is incapable of such idiocy," murmured Snape. He was now even more intrigued than before and once again a thrill of anticipation ran up his spine. Long had the Wizarding world been a calm and ordered place, yet he found he was not upset that the very real prospect existed that this state of affairs might well be coming to an end. _Have I truly been so bored as to welcome this? Apparently I have._

"How very interesting, Ludd. Mr. Blaise Zabini seems to be taking not only an inordinate amount of interest in our Professor Smith, but also in his housemate. How and why might this new turn of events result in a greater understanding of the situation?"

"Without new information any investigation – no matter how ample its resources – must invariably falter, Prefect General. Whereas some might view hitherto unforeseen factors as irksome, we must welcome all new elements as opportunities to be embraced. Mr. Zabini is a fresh lens through which we may see afresh the facts of this…case…and throw new light on them," replied the young man.

"Your hesitation – you believe there to be nothing of importance afoot?"

"I…do not, sir. The events are too random to point to anything which warrants the personal attention of the Prefect General. Granted, Booker may well have used an illegal spell or artefact to kill – deliberately or inadvertently – Boris Halliwell; the fact that both these men are alone in the world would have raised the slight possibility of impostors had they not gone through the rigorous background checks common to all those who work in Magical Law Enforcement; their coterie of friends – Roberto Choeke, Iain Knatchbull, Hermione Granger and Ginevra Weasley – all point towards the unsavoury possibility of personal loyalty to Provost Marshall Moody and through him the now defunct Order of the Phoenix, but taken together these pieces of circumstantial evidence add up to nothing concrete. I apologise if the Prefect General takes my honest concern to be impertinence…"

"Pre-emptive apologies are for cowards and career politicians," interjected the older wizard.

"…but such matters are beneath the concern of your office, sir," finished the flushing Ludd.

"You mean to intimate, of course, that I am wasting my time?" drawled Snape.

"Yes."

"You are maturing, Ludd…finally. I cannot logically refute your reasoning, but then I have seldom been afforded the luxury of operating on the basis of logic and reason. Ever have instinct and intuition been my handmaidens and whilst they are never the most desirable of companions, they are my proven – if occasionally fallible – allies. Once you have learned how to deduce effectively, Ludd, you must go on to _intuit_. After all, even the Aurors possessed with the meanest of intellects are able to deduce," he murmured as he watched the two young witches laugh and converse with their respective sentimental partners.

"No, Ludd – it may be difficult for you to accept this assertion at so early a stage in your apprenticeship, I _know_ there is something more here than meets the eye. Alastor Moody may well have no desire for political power, but it is not beyond the realms of possibility that he is laying the groundwork for rebellion at the behest of a third party. Alternatively, a clique of Aurors may be planning to supplant their Provost Marshall. Whatever the plot is, Ludd, I assure you that a plot does indeed exist – I feel it in my water. All I need do is observe and the truth shall be laid bare."

"If what you say is correct, Prefect General, then an innate capacity for subconscious analysis is more valuable than even the most rigorously trained mind."

"As I said, Ludd, you are maturing."

"Then you believe I am possessed of this capability?"

"I do, but your need to state the obvious is a stark reminder of the long path before you," Snape casually insulted the younger wizard.

Knowing the young wizard well enough to know he would now ponder the many lessons of this evening, his dark eyes fixed their emotionless gaze one more upon Rafael Smith. Something about the way he comported himself with Miss Granger made him feel uneasy, almost as if...

**A/N:**

**Snape quoted "From the wings I heard and watched the pavane of tragedy move stead****ily towards its climax" taken from **_**'I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings'**_** which is the 1969 autobiography of African-American writer and poet Maya Angelou.**

**The origin of 'pavane' is apparently not known. Possibilities include the word being:**

**from Italian ****'Padovana', meaning a dance typical from Padua, or**

**from the Spanish **_**pavón**_** meaning **_**peacock**_


End file.
